


Les Beaux-Arts

by kitchournas



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, BPD episode, Borderline Personality Disorder, Coming Out, Follows the general sequence of events of season 2, Gratuitous references to Breton culture, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Marti is in his last year of high school, Mental Health Issues, Nico studies graphic design, They meet in France, but with a different timeline and under different circumstances, nobody gets outed or cheated on, so I can write about what I know for a change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2019-10-14 01:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17499062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitchournas/pseuds/kitchournas
Summary: Martino is visiting Filippo during his semester abroad in Rennes, France. He wanders into the Museum of Fine Arts where he finds all sorts of art, more or less weird, more or less creepy, and a cute guy sketching.Or a retelling of their story if Nico hadn't gone to Marti's school after Virgilio and if they met a year and a half later, in France.





	1. The Museum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, blame my friend who asked for a tour of Rennes last weekend.
> 
> As mentionned in the tag, this follows *some* of the events of season 2, but as the context and circumstances of their meeting are pretty different (e.g. Emma and Maddi aren't involved), so are the timeline and consequences. I'm basically playing at "What if this thing had happened a little differently and also they meet in Rennes because why not?"

It is Martino's second day in France, and he has already eaten more crêpes that he can count and gotten drunk on cider and some kind of mead. Filippo is studying in France for one semester, officially to improve his command of the language, and Martino managed to convince his mom to let him spend the week on an inflatable mattress in a tiny college dorm room. She wasn’t keen on letting him go, at first, reluctant at the idea of him hanging out with older students, in a city he didn’t know, until he had finally introduced her to Filippo who had proceeded to immediately charm her until she finally relented. Today, they spent almost two hours walking around the city, checking out the medieval half-timbered houses, eating all kinds of local delicacies and Filippo tried on two separate occasions to trick him into a clothing store to make him buy, in his own words, “anything but this shirt, please, Marti, I’m begging you”.

Martino now finds himself alone in the center of Rennes, with over two hours to kill after Filippo jumped on his bike to head to his only class of the day. His legs are tired from walking, the sky is quickly darkening, threatening to rain, and Martino has to find something to fill this time and somehow, hopefully, not get drenched in the process. He takes out his phone to look up the location of the Museum of Fine Arts. Based on Filippo’s enthusiastic recommendations, he figures he might as well make his trip somewhat cultural, as he promised his mom, and what better way than to look at some art in a sheltered, dry place. Thankfully, the city center is not that big, so he gets to the museum in less than ten minutes and before the drizzle can turn into a full-blown shower. Inside, he flashes a smile at the cashier, who gives him the student discount without even asking him for his card, before heading towards the archeological section. He glances at the displays without much interest until he stops in his tracks, half-horrified, in front of a mummified cat. His eyes then land on the bundle right next to it which turns out to be a mummified baby crocodile, and he has to stifle a laugh. He takes a picture of both and texts them to the Contrabbandieri. Their responses range from appreciative (Luca) to a more direct “What the fuck is wrong with the French?” (from Elia, who has held a grudge against France for years for reasons he mysteriously refuses to go into).

Once he has had his fill of Greek potteries and Roman jewels, he walks upstairs to find himself in a hallway filled with modern art. Now, Filippo raved about the museum’s collection, but the thing is, Martino doesn’t actually understand modern art. He wants to, he really does, but he has always struggled to find the meaning in abstract works and the explanations either in French or in English are not helping him much. He still tries and quizzically observes monochromes, lines and dots which do not conjure anything in his mind except maybe for weird psychedelic wallpaper in some kind of creepy mansion from the 1970s. Once he gets to the end of the hallway, he doesn’t feel like he has gained any understanding of the subject, but at least he is more than ready for good old figurative 14th century religious imagery. He’s been to enough museums back home to be more than familiar with the genre, but familiar does not sound so bad when he finds himself in a country whose language he doesn’t speak that well and where he only knows one other person. So he takes his time, moves past some paintings a little more quickly, stops to notice the light in some country scene or the smile on a portrait of a young girl. He takes a few steps back to take on a massive painting that almost reaches the ceiling, only to walk right into an old woman who glares at him until he apologizes in broken French. By the time he has used up all his vocabulary, she finally lets him off the hook with a dismissive wave and a shadow of a smile.

The museum is not crowded, but there are a few people in every room, some rushing from painting to painting, others staring for a really long time at a specific picture, some having what seems like very in-depth conversations involving technical terms Martino doesn’t understand. A guy is gesturing emphatically at a Crucifixion to a girl who seems to be ready to die of boredom. He doesn’t even notice her eye roll. But Martino does and when she meets his eyes, he glances at the guy and smiles at her sympathetically. She smiles back and suddenly turns to the guy to interrupt him. Martino has to move on to the next room before he can burst into laughter at the guy’s offended face. The room he ends up in, which is one of the last of the exhibit, is almost empty. There is only a father and his daughter making up stories about the boats depicted in a painting, and in a corner of the room, sat on a small stool out of the way of other visitors, a guy is facing a statue and bending over a sketchpad. Martino takes his time around the room until he reaches the sculpture. It is an old Breton woman in a traditional headdress, which a completely drunk friend of Filippo’s had gone on about at length the previous night. Her face is etched with wrinkles and he thinks she looks both peaceful and determined. She reminds him of his mother on her good days, so he takes a picture to show her later. He tries to keep some distance from the guy who he can now see is drawing her so as not to bother him. He still looks down curiously at the mop of dark hair hiding part of the sketchpad, hoping it is not too obvious that he is trying to catch a glimpse of his drawing. Then the guy moves his head to the side a little, as he adds some shading to her headdress and suddenly, Martino cannot take his eyes off the sketch. He looks in fascination at the guy’s confident strokes, hypnotized by the way he makes shapes, facial features, expressions and even depth appear out of seemingly nowhere. He is so absorbed in his contemplation that it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to notice that the pencil is no longer moving on the page. When he does, he looks up in surprise to find two green eyes looking back at him with an amused expression.

“Il te plaît?” The guy asks with a grin.

Martino recognizes he is speaking French, he thinks he knows the words he is using but he is staring back at what he can now see is a very hot guy and all his French teacher’s efforts now seem entirely wasted.

“Sorry?” He finally manages in Italian, which to his surprise, makes the guy’s whole face light up.

“Hey, you’re Italian!”

Martino is going from one surprise to the next.

“Yes! You, too?”

He has to repress the urge to smack himself for his answer, because of course he clearly is. But the guy doesn’t seem to think he’s a complete idiot, he just looks happy to have met someone from home.

“Yes, Roman born and bred.”

Martino is starting to wonder if he is not the victim of some elaborate prank. He’s pretty sure Filippo told him there weren’t that many Italians in Rennes.

“Me, too.”

“Are you kidding me? Well, then it was fate.”

Martino is not usually a big believer in fate, but he’s willing to change his mind when faced with that hundred-watt smile. Before he can find an appropriate response that doesn’t make him sound completely smitten with somebody he’s literally just met, the guy continues.

“Hey, how come I’ve never seen you around? What do you study?”

“Oh no, I don’t study here. I’m just visiting someone who does.”

“Oh, okay. Girlfriend?” He asks with a tilt of the head that makes Marti’s heart beat a little faster.

“No, boy… friend,” Marti stammers before quickly correcting himself, not wanting to give the guy the wrong impression, just in case. “I mean, friend who is a boy.”

By now, some people are shooting looks in their direction and one of the museum attendants who had come to see what the raised voices were about is frowning at them so they lower their voices.

“Want to get out of here?” The guy suggests, pocketing his pencil and closing his sketchpad.

“But what about your drawing?”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. I took a picture of her and I can always try to finish it from memory.”

He stands up and holds out his hand.

“I’m Niccolò, by the way.”

“Martino.”

They shake hands and Niccolò folds back the stool he was sitting on. Martino follows him to the start of the exhibition where he drops his stool in a cart with a bunch of others. Then he leads them down the stairs and when he sees that it’s still pouring outside, he turns into an empty hallway. Niccolò sits down on the floor like he’s done it a million times and he’s basically at home here. Martino follows suit and tries not to sit too close to him no matter how much he sort of wants to run his fingers through those dark curls.

“Do you mind if I continue sketching?”

“No, of course not. Do you study art, then?”

Niccolò scoffs as he takes out his pencil and finds the right page in his sketchpad.

“I wish. No, I’m taking graphic design. A compromise with my parents so everybody’s happy and I don’t die starving in a ditch or something.”

Martino doesn’t think he sounds very happy but he knows well enough about compromising with parents and quietly sympathizes.

“What about you, Marti? That's your first time in France?”

They’re sitting on the cold, hard floor, there’s definitely a draft in the hallway and the voices of the visitors echo in the patio of the museum on the other side of the wall, which makes it a little hard to hear each other sometimes, but Martino doesn’t care because he is endlessly charmed by Niccolò. They keep talking about pretty much everything with barely a pause. Niccolò becomes Nico and he shows him some of his sketches of other artworks from the museum as well as buildings and people that caught his eye in the street. Martino thinks everything he draws seems incredibly alive and expressive, and when he tells him just that, Niccolò looks genuinely touched. Nico is funny and witty, sometimes a little dark, but Martino loves it all and only when his phone starts buzzing continuously does he manage to draw his attention away from the boy sitting next to him. He apologizes and is dragged straight back to reality as he finds three texts and two missed calls from Filippo.

“Fuck! I was supposed to meet my friend when he was done with classes.”

“The boy who is just a friend?” Niccolò asks with a teasing smile.

“Yes, he wanted to go see some film, I can’t remember what.”

Martino looks between his phone and Nico a couple of times. As much as he loves him and how much he’s been here for him for the past year, he’s never felt so little eagerness at the idea of meeting up with Filippo. He doesn’t want to leave Nico. If he stands up and leaves, Nico will go back to his sketches and his classes and his life in Rennes, and in a few days, Martino will be back in Rome to finish his last year of high school and they’ll never talk again. And then, Niccolò resolves his dilemma for him.

“Hey, you haven’t heard any Celtic music yet, have you?”

“Er, no.” Martino’s not sure where he’s going with it, but he’ll jump at any chance to continue the conversation.

“I’m going to a concert tonight. You want to come too? Bring your friend if he’s into it.”

Sometimes Martino wishes he had a better poker face, but at the moment he knows he’s beaming and he doesn’t care.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Sure, where is it?”

“How about I text you the info?”

When Niccolò hands him his phone so he can add in his number, he has a look on his face like he’s kind of proud of himself and Martino will never forgive himself if he cannot find a way to stay in touch with this guy, maybe meet him again when he’s back in Rome.

“Okay.”

He types in his number, hesitates for a second before simply adding his name and hands the phone back to Niccolò, who takes it and starts leafing through his sketchpad. He snaps a photo of something in it and sends it to Martino. When his phone buzzes, he can see it’s a cartoon of a nutria fighting a duck for a piece of bread. His phone immediately starts buzzing again with a call from Filippo.

“Sorry, I really have to go.”

“Okay. I’ll text you.”

“Okay.”

Martino waves as he’s walking away and answering the call. He’s listening to Filippo asking him what the fuck he’s doing, when he can hear Nico behind him calling,

“See you, Marti!”

And as he steps into the rain, while Filippo gives him directions so they can meet up, he can’t quite wipe the smile from his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Here's [the museum](https://imgur.com/3HtepKV), and here's [the sculpture](https://imgur.com/a/MdA6vS2). It's called "Vieille Paimpolaise" by Louis-Henri Nicot, and don't ask me why, but love her. Also, she looked less stern in my memories, so let's ignore that.
> 
> "Il te plaît ?" means "Do you like it?"  
> Just like Martino, the thing about modern art is, I don’t understand it.  
> 


	2. Third Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filippo has some things to say about Martino's encounter, and Martino has some things to say about Filippo's taste in movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everybody who left kudos or comments or cared about this completely self-indulgent AU, where I'm going to cram as many references to things I love as I can and nobody can stop me.

“Unbelievable!”

Filippo is looking at Martino like he has never been more offended in his entire life. Except that Marti knows it's not true because he said some stuff himself when they first met for which he still feels like apologizing sometimes, and because he was with him on a couple of occasions when people in the street felt entitled to comment on Filippo’s appearance. They’re sitting in a bar two streets over from the movie theater waiting out both the rain and the time for their movie while drinking cider. Martino had intended to keep his encounter with Niccolò to himself and maybe casually mention he saw a poster for a concert, but after no more than two questions from Filippo about what could possibly have kept him from answering his phone and why he was grinning like an idiot, he blurted out the whole thing. Now, having to face what he feels is completely underserved outrage from his friend, all Martino can do is sigh.

“Two hours! I leave you alone for two hours and you meet a cute Italian guy who knows about art, draws like a God, has a sense of humor and invites you to a concert?”

“Well, it was actually closer to three hours…” Marino points out.

“While after three months here, all I have learned is that French guys are kind of gross, and the movies lied.”

Martino laughs, he knows he hasn’t stopped smiling since he left the museum and that Filippo has been studying him like he’s coming down with some kind of disease since they met up. It’s Filippo’s turn to sigh, and he pinches Martino’s cheek.

“It’s because you’re young and in your prime. There’s no hope for me.”

Martino slaps his hand away with a laugh.

“Fili, come on, you’re still in college. What about that guy from La Réunion that was in your class? You said he was cute.”

“Oh no, he was. Very cute, very nice, very boring.”

“Well, what about Andrea, then? I thought that was going well before you left.”

“Okay, first off, don’t think I didn’t notice you were trying to change the subject from your cute guy and second, Andrea is great, but I’m not sure he really knows what he wants. I’m not sure he was very on board with me leaving for six months after four dates either.”

“But you haven’t heard from him?”

“No, I have. He texts all the time and we Facetime sometimes.”

Martino sits up in his chair, surprised that Filippo doesn’t seem more excited when he had talked his ear off about Andrea on several occasions back in Rome.

“See? He’s interested.”

“Yeah, maybe. Anyway it’s too early to tell. And I’m still here for two months, so let’s cross that bridge when I get home.”

Filippo takes a sip of his drink.

“And in the meantime, tell me more about your plans with Niccolò.”

“Well, he said he would text to tell me where the concert is. He said you can come, too, if you want.”

Filippo smirks.

“How kind of him.”

“Don’t feel like you have to, then,” Martino interjects, eager to defend Niccolò’s invitation which was extended in perfectly good faith.

Filippo considers him for a second, his expression turning more serious before he speaks again.

“I mean, I won’t go if you don’t want me to, but I did promise your mom to look out for you. And what do we know about this guy really? Just because he can draw and he’s Italian doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer.”

Martino tries not to roll his eyes.

“A serial killer? Come on.”

“Hey, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but I’ve heard some horror stories back home, and you don’t want me to repeat them, so trust me when I say that you never know. He’s probably very nice and everything, and I’m not trying to crash your date, but I’d feel better if I was there.” He pauses for a second before adding, in a lighter tone, “Do you know how much paperwork would be involved if you got murdered in another country? It’s probably a lot, and I don’t want to have to deal with that.”

“You just want to see what he looks like, you can say it,” Martino counters.

“Are you implying that I may have ulterior motives?”

Martino doesn’t respond, but he trusts that his expression is answer enough.

“Who is even playing at this concert?” Filippo continues.

“I don’t know, I think he just said it was Celtic music.”

Filippo gives him a look that Martino doesn’t know how to interpret.

“Celtic music?”

“Yes, but he didn’t say who it was.”

“Oh, fuck,” Filippo groans. “Last month, there was a Breton band playing in front of the City Hall for some kind of festival. It was just bagpipes and drums and those loud, weird-ass kind of oboes. I'm probably going to go deaf prematurely because of it.”

Martino grimaces, because as much as he wants to see Niccolò again, it certainly doesn’t sound like the best way to spend an evening. But he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself and tries to save worrying about the concert for later. What he wants now is a clear answer from Filippo, despite not being sure himself if he does want him there because he’s right, you never know, or if he wants another chance to spend some time alone with Niccolò.

“So you _don’t_ want to come?”

Filippo looks conflicted.

“I mean, I know there’s more to Breton music than just pipe bands. And I don’t really want to let you go with some random guy you met three hours ago.”

“So?” Martino insists.

“Fine. I’ll come. But you’re not a minor anymore, so you’re definitely buying me a cocktail this time.”

Martino breaks into a smile.

“Fine. Thanks, Fili.”

He means it sincerely, knowing that Filippo is only looking out for him, and it brings a softer smile to Filippo's face.

“Yeah, yeah. Thank me when we know what’s in store for us tonight.”

 

They’re standing in the lobby of the cinema, waiting to be let into their theater, and Martino is staring quizzically at the poster for the film they’re about to see.

“You didn’t even tell me what the movie was about.”

“Does it matter? You’ve got your ticket already.”

Martino turns back to Filippo, suddenly suspicious.

“That’s not reassuring at all. What it is about? It’s not new, right? It doesn’t look new.”

“It’s nothing weird, Marti. It’s a French movie, there’s people dealing with jobs and families, falling in love, shots of Paris, somebody’s probably depressed. And I think it’s, like, 20 years old, but come on, where’s your sense of adventure? You’re in another country, soak in some culture a little. Plus, I paid for your ticket, so worst-case scenario, you waste two hours of your life. You’re 18, that’s nothing.”

“You know, nobody will know or care what we do and if we’ve ‘soaked in the culture’. We can do whatever we want.”

“Fine, then we’re watching this movie because I want to see it, I paid for it, and you’re staying with me. And because I’m playing third wheel at some mysterious concert tonight.”

Martino is still looking at him, not quite convinced.

“And you’re not the one who had to sit through a two-hour class on holomorphic functions in French today.”

“Okay, okay, you win.”

The doors open soon after, and they take their seats. For the first five minutes of the film, Martino is focused on trying to follow the historical references and the quick-fire dialogue. And then, out of nowhere, the music starts.

“It’s a musical?” Martino whispers to Filippo, who gives him a curt nod in answer.

“Clearly.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

The man in the seat next to Martino glances at him so he leans into Filippo’s side to whisper almost directly into his ear.

“Is this because of what I said when we met?”

Filippo gives him a questioning look.

“You know, about Pride and... the way you look and everything?”

It is too dark for Martino to actually see it, but he’s pretty sure he can feel Filippo roll his eyes. He’s opening his mouth to say something else but Filippo shushes him.

“Just watch the movie, Marti.”

With a huff that probably makes him sound like a five-year-old, Martino crosses his arms and slides down a little in his seat. The whole thing only draws a laugh from Filippo. He resigns himself to wasting two hours of his life and tries to at least focus on understanding what’s happening instead of questioning why it needs to happen in song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will have to pry protective Filippo from my cold, dead hands.  
> The "loud, weird-ass kind of oboe" is called a bombarde, and I stand by that description.  
> The movie is "On connaît la chanson" and as much as I love it, I'm not sure it would be Marti's cup of tea.  
> I don't, however, know what holomorphic functions are, and I'm too afraid to ask.  
> 


	3. Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marti and Filippo go to a concert, and they both get a little more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went full Breton on this one, and I’m taking Nico and Fili down with me.
> 
> I added some tags, which are not relevant yet but will be later, just so you know what you're signing up for.

Two hours later, as they make their way out of the cinema, Martino’s bad mood has passed, and he begrudgingly admits that he didn’t hate the movie. It was weird, a little boring at times and he never really quite understood why there had to be singing, but it was not the worst way to occupy two hours. As a bonus, when they step out into the street, they find that the rain has stopped and the sun may be setting, but the clouds are definitely being chased away. As soon as they’re outside, Martino checks his phone to find a text from Niccolò. Anticipation courses through him as he opens it, to be quickly quenched when the message turns out to be pretty perfunctory. It contains all the necessary information, 9pm, the price of tickets, the address of the venue and a suggestion to go in directly as he might be late, but nothing more.

“Do you know the salle de la Cité?” He asks Filippo instead of dwelling on his disappointment.

“Hm, no, that doesn’t ring a bell. Is that where we’re going?”

Just as he’s about to answer, Martino’s phone starts buzzing with a call from his mother. He can’t help the sigh that escapes him.

“Yes, it is. Hang on, it’s my mom.”

“Okay. I’ll look up where that place is. Tell her I said hi!”

Martino picks up, telling himself not to let his impatience show. So far, his mom has called him three times, once when he arrived in Rennes and once a day since, and he tries to understand, he really does, but he can’t deny that it’s not helping him enjoy his vacation fully. The trip has made her anxious and he knows the fact that she and his dad have an appointment with their lawyers the next week is not helping, so he tries to make his answers as short and reassuring as he can, skipping over any detail that might worry her. Like the amount of mead that was drunk on Thursday night. Or Niccolò. By the end of the call, she sounds lighter at least as she wishes them both a good evening, and Martino exhales with relief.

“Okay, salle de la Cité, that’s a five-minute walk from here, so we still have almost an hour. Want to grab some food?”

The only places still open at this time except for restaurants are fast-food places, so they spend almost longer queuing than actually eating. Once they’re back in the street, Filippo suggests they go for a walk for the twenty minutes they have left before Marti’s nerves end up getting on his.

“I’m not nervous,” Martino protests.

“Have you seen yourself? You’re checking your phone every two minutes and you barely touched your food.”

“I’m not nervous! I’m just…”

He tries to find a way to explain that if anything, he’s just impatient, but gives up when he imagines the kind of teasing that would ensue. Instead, he agrees to the walk, hoping it will at least make time go a little faster. They end up wandering through the town center, zigzagging on the narrow sidewalks to avoid the Friday night revelers making their way to the bars, restaurants or theaters of the area.

 

When they finally reach the venue, it’s 9:05 and Martino cannot stand still as they pay for their tickets and make their way inside. There’s a courtyard already filling up with people holding drinks, smoking and chatting in groups. The bar is set under a tent by the entrance of the building, and they head there first, so Martino can make good on his promise and buy them both drinks. Inside, the lights are already dimmed, and down a short flight of stairs, in front of the stage, a few people are already milling about and watching as the musicians finish setting up. They choose to settle against the rail surrounding the upper level, where they can have a good view of the stage while waiting until they get an idea of what’s coming before they commit to joining the crowd downstairs. Martino is watching the guitarist pluck a few chords to adjust the sound levels when Filippo suddenly grabs his arm. When Martino turns around to look at him, he is staring at the stage like he’s having war flashbacks. Giving him a nudge with his shoulder, Martino gives him a questioning face.

“That’s the oboe I was telling you about.”

He’s pointing at another musician who is holding what does look like a more rudimentary oboe.

“You’ll pay for this, Marti. For your sake, I hope you get somewhere with this guy, because you’ll pay.”

Martino frees his arm from Filippo’s grip and pats his shoulder comfortingly before glancing towards the front door and scanning the room again for Niccolò. He resists the urge to check his phone, knowing full well that he hasn’t received any message. Then, the guitarist is greeting everybody, and claps and cheers erupt from the people now gathering in front of the stage. When the music starts, Martino can’t help but think that Filippo was exaggerating, because it doesn’t sound at all like what he was expecting. He turns to look at Filippo and finds him nodding along to the music and looking impressed.

“Hey, they’re not bad!”

He has to raise his voice to be heard over the music, and they both look down to the lower level where people are forming a chain and starting to dance.

“What’s happening?” Martino asks, but Filippo shrugs in answer, watching curiously as some sort of order seems to emerge from the crowd downstairs and more and more people join in.

The music may not sound exactly traditional, but the dancing looks like it could be, and Martino has to admit to being impressed because the two mash pretty well together. The effect produced looks almost hypnotic and both the band and the dancers seem to be enjoying themselves. He watches for a while as the first song ends and another starts, with people launching into a different dance like they’re all in on it. The sight keeps him just distracted enough that he doesn’t think to check his phone or look for Nico right away. When he does check again, it’s 9:22 and a look around the room doesn’t reveal any sign of his presence. Next to him, Filippo seems to be having a good time at least, swaying to the music and observing the way people form circles or chains, partnering up or showing each other the steps. The upper level is well-lit enough that when Martino turns to the entrance again, he immediately catches sight of Niccolò standing by the door and looking towards the stage. Martino stands up from where he had been leaning against the rail but almost feels like leaning down again and hiding when he realizes that Nico is not alone. He is with another guy and two girls and Martino doesn’t know how to react to that fact. Nico did suggest he invite Filippo after all, and he never specifically mentioned he was coming alone, but he also didn’t mention otherwise. Filippo has noticed his attitude and is looking at him with an enquiring expression. Luckily for Martino, the music has become slower and lower, so he can explain without having to shout,

“He’s here.”

Filippo immediately stands up as swell and starts scanning the crowd until Martino points him in the right direction. He takes a long look at Niccolò and nods approvingly.

“Good for you, Marti. Who’s he with?”

Martino’s only answer is a shrug, which draws a frown from Filippo. Before either of them can say anything more, Niccolò starts looking around the room until his eyes meet Martino’s. His face immediately lights up and Filippo snorts.

“Yeah, I don’t think you have to worry about whoever they are.”

He may just be trying to be reassuring, but Martino is grateful anyway and returns a thankful smile. Meanwhile, Niccolò has been talking to his friends and is suddenly heading their way, the other three following a few steps behind.

“Marti! You came!”

And sure, Nico came with three friends and almost thirty minutes late, but it might be worth it to hear him say his name like this. Niccolò introduces Anaïs, Yuna and Benoît, everybody exchanges handshakes and kisses on the cheek. Yuna greets them in near-perfect Italian while Benoît barely manages a “Ciao” before they’re off with a wave to join the dancers waltzing downstairs, but Anaïs lingers. She attempts a couple of questions in Italian, and they politely answer as slowly as they can to make sure she can follow. She keeps darting looks towards the people dancing until she finally gives in and switches back to French.

“You guys don’t want to dance?”

She’s looking at Niccolò, and Martino turns to him as well while holding his breath because he doesn’t mind watching, but he’s not sure he would be able to deal with the kind of dancing that is happening downstairs.

“I don’t think so, but you should go, that’s why you came, wasn’t it?”

Martino holds back a sigh of relief and suddenly, Filippo’s addressing Anaïs in French.

“You know what? I’ll give it a try if you show me.”

“You’re going to dance?” Martino exclaims, switching the conversation back to Italian, not sure if he should be impressed or horrified.

“Yeah, it doesn’t look that hard, and that’s why we’re here, right, to…”

“Fili, I swear to God if you say anything about soaking in the culture again, I _will_ kill you.”

“Hey, you’re the one who insisted this was a cultural trip.” Filippo counters, raising his hands in innocence.

“No, I wasn’t! You’re the one who got guilt-tripped by my mother into playing role model.”

Niccolò is following the exchange with a delighted expression while Anaïs, looking completely lost, has already taken a few steps back and seems ready to go join her friends. Filippo hands Marti his empty cup.

“No regrets?”

“Absolutely no regrets,” Martino laughs in answer as he takes the cup.

He leans toward Martino to whisper in his ear, “Holler if he takes out a machete”, then he and Anaïs are making their way through the crowd that has gathered at the bottom of the stairs. Once they have disappeared among the dancers, Niccolò turns to Martino.

“Look at you, you’ve got two empty cups and I have nothing, want to grab a refill?”

 

They make their way outside to join the line to the bar, and Nico asks,

“How do you know Filippo?”

That’s a question Martino should probably be prepared for by now. It’s not even the first time he has had to find a way to explain that doesn’t reveal the details of their first meeting or the fact that their friendship had almost turned into a complete fiasco. He still swallows as he sticks to the more neutral details of that story.

“Oh, he was the brother of a friend of a friend.”

“That’s a lot of people involved,” Nico laughs.

“Yeah, we met at a party and then… Hum, I guess we got to spend some time together and he helped me out with… some stuff.”

There is something in the way Niccolò is looking at him and nodding along that makes Martino believe he saw right through him and knows exactly what kind of help Filippo has given him. But he’s not going down that road, not tonight, not when he doesn’t know nearly enough about Nico yet and not when the evening has barely started. So he moves on to what is after all a normal segue in this kind of conversation.

“And the people who came with you, are they classmates or…”

“Oh, no.”

One constant about Niccolò so far seems to be that he laughs through half of his replies, whatever the topic is. From anybody else, it would probably sound mocking or dismissive, but Martino can’t help but think that with him, it just seems to stem from warmth and genuine enjoyment.

“Yuna’s my cousin, Benoît’s her boyfriend and Anaïs is her best friend. I’m staying with my uncle while I’m studying here and it’s Yuna’s birthday tomorrow. There’s a band she loves playing tonight, so she really wanted to come. She and Benoît made dinner, and it got a little long. That’s why we were late.”

His expression suddenly turns serious and he glances around them before adding in a conspiratorial whisper.

“And I know she’s my cousin and she may be half-Italian, but she was brought up in France. And trust me, Marti, if a French person offers to make you carbonara, say no. They don’t really know what it is.”

Martino laughs at the pure disgust on Nico’s face that lasts for just a second before he’s joining in.

“Okay, I promise. But that means you knew tonight wasn’t just a concert, then? Tell the truth.”

Niccolò looks down in mock contrition.

“Would you have come if I had told you there was going to be folk dancing?”

He’s looking at Martino with his eyebrows raised like he’s just made an excellent point, and since the point seems to be that he really wanted him to come, Martino is definitely not going to hold it against him. In fact, he doesn’t even get a chance to because they finally reach the bar where somebody is greeting them and waiting for their order. Martino switches Filippo’s reusable cup for a clean one for Nico and they get two beers that Niccolò insists on paying for.

“Call it my apology for making you guys wait,” he smiles as he clinks his cup against Martino’s.

 

They head back into the building and settle inside, right by the front door where the music is not quite so loud that they cannot hear each other. Talking to Niccolò is just as easy as it was this afternoon, sitting on the cold floor of the museum. He is passionate about music and starts telling Martino about the evolution of Celtic music, which lives on by staying true to its roots while taking some distance from strictly traditional codes and appealing to new audiences by mixing up genres like the bands playing tonight. His uncle is apparently an expert on the subject and has been taking his nephew to all sorts of concerts, from pipe bands playing with North African musicians to more experimental compositions. Yuna takes after her father and has promised to give him a long list of her favorite musicians. Martino, who wouldn’t have thought he could have cared about Celtic music until now, listens in fascination and even spurs him on until he moves on from music to art. Amazingly, he seems even more passionate about the subject, and Martino learns that he has been going to the Fine Arts museum regularly to sketch his favorite pieces.

“I mean, the school is fine, but they focus a lot more on infographics and digital techniques. We get to sketch but only for two hours a week.”

“So that’s why you go to the museum?”

“Yeah. It’s still the best way to learn different techniques. And at least you can pick what you want to draw.”

“And why did you pick that statue then?”

Nico takes a sip of his drink as he thinks it over.

“I don’t know. She looked like the kind of grandma who gives you cookies and then tells you about the hard lessons of life while sipping her coffee. You don’t think so?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I thought there was something in her expression as well. Like she had been through some stuff, but she would still help out anybody who would need it.”

He stares at his cup and lowers his voice before he adds, “She kinda reminded me of my mom.”

When he doesn’t get an answer, he looks up to find Niccolò looking at him with a soft smile.

“Your mom sounds pretty great.”

“I guess,” he shrugs, before going back to a safer topic. “So what kind of paintings do you like best?”

Niccolò looks up and exhales like Martino has just asked him the hardest question in the universe.

“I like pretty much anything, it’s more about the emotion you put in your art and the subject you choose, really. If I had to pick one, maybe surrealism? Especially people like Magritte, who made stuff and refused to let people try and find meanings to his paintings. Like, he just put an apple instead of a guy’s face because he felt like it. Actually, two years ago, when we were in Paris, I had to drag Maddalena to an exhibit on Magritte even though it was the hottest day of the summer and we had barely slept but let me tell you, it was so worth it.”

Everything Martino knows about Magritte, he has learned in art history, and he has never quite understood the point of surrealism, but what draws his attention the most in this story has nothing to do with Magritte.

“Maddalena?” He asks, even though he’s not sure he actually wants to hear the answer.

“Yeah, she’s my ex. I had a summer job in London and she had one in Paris, so I went to see her.”

Martino really should have known that having it confirmed would not help in any way, but now that he knows for sure, he feels his heart dropping in his chest. It takes him a second to realize that having an ex-girlfriend doesn’t necessarily mean Niccolò is not interested in him. After all, no matter how short and unsatisfying the relationship had been for either of them or how Martino had really felt about her, that's what Emma was to him now, his ex-girlfriend. He doesn’t know him well enough to determine whether Niccolò may have also dated Maddalena out of a combination of fear and a sense of obligation. He doesn't really seem like the type to be so easily swayed, but then again, Martino would not have pegged himself for the type either, not until Elia had asked why he wouldn’t want to go to a party Emma had invited them to. Before he can let himself head down a road he is much too familiar with, Martino shakes the thought away to focus on what really matters in the moment. Maddalena is not here, neither is Emma, and Niccolò chose to spend his evening talking to him rather than with his cousin or Anaïs. Maddalena may have been his girlfriend, but she isn’t anymore, and Niccolò is standing by his side, apparently enjoying himself and telling him about all the things he loves. So, he tells Niccolò about his own visit to Paris with his parents, way before his dad was even thinking about leaving, before his mom’s depression got so much worse, and they were a regular family.

 

Not long after that, claps erupt from downstairs, louder than before, and the band is making their goodbyes. The others join them, sweating and happy. Filippo, who seems to be having the time of his life, shoots Martino a knowing look with a nod towards Nico who is listening to Anaïs gush about something. Martino can only grin in return, which gets him a thumbs-up. Benoît takes out a bottle of water from his backpack that he passes around and is soon half-empty. They barely have time to exchange more than a few comments before another band is setting up and Yuna, Benoît and Anaïs head back downstairs. Filippo stays behind for a moment as they listen to the second band start playing.

“So, what’s your revised assessment on Breton music?”

“Hey, I’ll be the first to admit when I’m wrong. I’ll say it, these guys know how to party.”

He turns to Niccolò to add,

“Yuna and Anaïs are very good at this.”

“Oh, yeah, they’ve been dancing since they were kids, I think. Anaïs showed you some steps?”

“A couple at first, yes, but I think I was too desperate a case for her patience, so I found some good Samaritans. And you know what? I’m going to head back because those guys sound pretty amazing too.”

He waves at them and disappears again among the crowd.

“Want to get another drink?” Martino suggests, raising his once gain empty cup.

“Sure.”

 

They only realize how hot the room has gotten once the cool air hits them as they step outside. The queue at the bar has gotten longer and some of the people standing around in the courtyard are definitely not quite as steady on their feet as before. Once they finally get to the bartenders, who definitely look more rushed and harried than they did an hour ago, Martino gets another beer while Niccolò switches to something called Breizh Cola, which claims to be a local off-brand Coke. They turn back towards the entrance, but both hesitate before the door.

“You really want to go back inside? We can hear the music from here,” Niccolò suggests.

“Yeah, and it’s really hot in there.”

“Right? Did you see the condensation on the walls?”

So instead, they sit on a ledge surrounding the building and watch the people around them.

“When are you going home?” Niccolò asks after they spend a couple of minutes observing a group of people singing off key to a song they don’t recognize.

“Tuesday. And you?”

“End of June. After finals, my uncle wants to take me and Yuna for a bit of a vacation somewhere.”

“Your uncle sounds really nice.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty great. He moved to France before I was born so I never knew him that much growing up. But when I was in middle school and after he got divorced, I spent a few summers with him and Yuna. We always had an amazing time.”

“Yuna’s your age?”

“A year older. We always got on pretty well. She’s studying in Strasbourg now, so I haven’t seen her much this year, which really sucks. But she’s on vacation next week, and we get a chance to catch up. I don’t have siblings, so she’s the next best thing. Except she’s probably better because we live in different countries and we don’t get a chance to hate each other. Do you have siblings?”

“No, it’s just me as well.”

Niccolò takes out a cigarette and lights it. While he takes a drag, Martino, who would rather not take the risk of having to talk about his parents, not when he finally gets to have some time away from having to think about the divorce and what it’s put his mother through, seizes the opportunity to move away from families.

“And you’re coming back next year? Or was it just a one-year exchange thing?”

Niccolò exhales the smoke with what almost sounds like a sigh before holding out the cigarette to Martino, who takes it.

“Depends. This year was kind of a test to see how things went. But I’d like to come back, I think. The school’s not bad and I like it here.”

Martino nods while handing back the cigarette to hide any disappointment that might transpire on his face at the idea of not being able to run into Niccolò in Rome for at least two more years.

“And how have things been going so far?” He asks instead.

Niccolò turns to him with a bright smile.

“They’re going pretty well, I think.”

Martino’s could swear his heart is swelling in his chest as he smiles back. After that Niccolò starts telling him about one of his teachers who apparently has a very personal approach to teaching. Martino can’t tell if Niccolò loves or hates it. And then they’re swapping school stories, which turn into friends story. Martino finds himself telling Nico about Luca and the suitcase, about the time he and his friends tried to crash his ex-girlfriend’s brother’s birthday party only to be confronted by said angry ex-girlfriend. Both have Niccolò in stitches and he retaliates with stories that all seem to be at least two years old. And from one story to the other, they forget to get back inside, even as another band starts playing, and then another.

 

After a while, the yard has gotten more crowded with people who keep getting louder while the smell of pot and alcohol keeps getting stronger and Martino starts looking around, trying to see any indications of where the restroom is.

“Hey, do you know where the bathroom is in this place?”

“Yeah, it’s just over there, by the bar.”

Niccolò indicates a small building standing in a corner of the courtyard, partly hidden by a crowd of smokers and partly by the poor lighting in the area. They head there, slaloming between groups of drunk people, stepping aside from those who try to get them to join in a song or in a dance or to share a joint. When Martino comes out of the bathroom, he finds Nico leaning against the building, smoking another cigarette. He joins him there and after a couple of drags, Niccolò offers him his cigarette again. Martino takes it with a thanks. But when he hands it back, Niccolò lets his finger brush against Martino’s in a way that feels entirely too deliberate to be accidental. Martino looks up, blood rushing in his ears to find green eyes boring into his. Despite the small smile that he is sporting, there’s something hesitant in Niccolò’s expression. Martino’s gut is telling him to go for it, that he’s on vacation, in a different country, that there’s a beautiful guy who seems into him, who likes to talk to him about art and music and laughs at his stories, that there’s nobody he knows around here who will judge him for it and that if he happens to be wrong about this, he never has to see Nico again. The pull feels almost impossible to resist and it draws him towards Niccolò who is still looking at him with a completely open expression. Martino takes a step closer and almost jumps when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. Niccolò laughs when he struggles to extract it out his pocket and finds a message from Filippo.

“Do I need to call Interpol?”

Martino is torn between laughing and cursing Filippo for interrupting whatever may have been happening. He quickly replies that they’re coming and puts his phone away.

“Everything okay?”

Niccolò is looking at him expectantly, but otherwise his expression is unreadable.

“Yeah, it’s just Fili wondering where we are.”

“Shit, we’d better go back.”

But he doesn’t move right away and searches Martino’s expression for a second. Whatever he finds there seems to satisfy him as he grins and finally pushes himself off the wall. The front door is wide open, and people are standing just outside the door, breathing the cool air before going back in. Their friends are waiting a few feet away from the entrance, Yuna and Filippo checking their phones while Anaïs is practicing a step with Benoît.

“We’re here,” Niccolò announces, and they all look up.

“So you are,” Yuna replies with a mischievous expression as she looks between them. Martino hopes it’s dark enough despite the lights in the courtyard to hide the flush he can feel on his cheeks. Filippo’s expression tells him it definitely isn’t. Thankfully, Fili saves them from any embarrassment by immediately explaining.

“Sorry, Marti, but if we want to catch a bus back, we have to get going soon.”

“What? Already?”

That gets a laugh from the other four while he and Niccolò exchange a confused look.

“Well, yeah. You’ve been gone for a while,” Filippo continues, apparently no longer worried about saving anybody embarrassment.

“Oh, well, we should go then.”

“Yeah, we should, because I don’t really feel like walking all the way back.”

Just like that, the evening is over, and Filippo and Marti have to make their goodbyes. While Filippo is chatting with Yuna, Niccolò turns to Martino and asks quietly,

“We can do something if you want, before you leave?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The disappointment that had settled in Martino’s gut vanishes as Nico squeezes his shoulder with a quiet “see you soon, Marti” that’s only loud enough for him to hear. He waves the others goodbye, and then he and Filippo make their way across the courtyard and outside, soon walking quickly to the bus stop.

 

There are already a few people waiting, most of them clearly students who are also on their way back to their dorms or possibly to continue the party closer to the campus. There’s singing here as well and loud conversations, and Filippo recognizes a couple of people from one of his classes. While they chat about their evenings, Martino is left with his own thoughts and his memories of the past few hours. More people arrive and when the bus comes, it is crowded enough that they have to squeeze in the middle and stand close together. The people Filippo know have disappeared at the back of the bus, so he turns to Martino with a pressing expression.

“So?”

“So what?” Martino answers, pretending like he’s not biting back a smile.

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, it was pretty nice. How about you?” He continues innocently.

Filippo levels him with a very unimpressed look.

“Who cares, don’t play with me, come on, spill.”

“There’s not that much to spill. We just talked about a lot of stuff, but… yeah, it was pretty nice.”

“Aaaw, isn’t that cute? So are you going to see him again? Before you leave? When he gets back to Rome?”

The eagerness in his tone reminds Martino how much Filippo has always been here for him, ready to call him out when he needed it but always caring and always with his best interest at heart. He would almost be grateful for Peccio’s disgusting craft beer for having thrown Filippo onto his path.

“I guess. I hope so. He asked if we could do something before I leave.”

Filippo loses the teasing expression and he seems sincere when he speaks again.

“That’s great, Marti. I’m happy for you.”

Martino certainly agrees but now that he’s no longer in presence of Niccolò, he remembers the doubt that had crept in earlier and he figures that Filippo’s the person to tell him whether or not it is founded.

“He said he had an ex-girlfriend.”

Filippo seems to wait for Martino to continue but when he doesn’t, he just states,

“So do you.”

Martino nods and adds, hoping that Filippo will play along and finish dispelling his doubts,

“And I think Anaïs was into him.”

“Yeah, she is. But you know, he didn’t disappear with Anaïs all evening.”

Satisfied for now, Martino decides to revel in the feeling while it lasts and not think about anything involving him going home or Niccolò being into girls and maybe spending two more years here.

“No, he didn’t.”

And if he sounds a little smug, he doesn’t think Filippo is going to hold it against him. At the next stop, as more people get in the bus, it becomes too noisy for conversation, and Martino is happily left alone with his memories of fragments of conversations, shared cigarettes and a promise to meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I'm a dumb idiot who got Dali and Magritte mixed up, Nico was talking about Magritte.  
> I lied, it's not _technically_ a concert, it's a fest-noz.
> 
> La salle de la Cité doesn't actually exist anymore, but I'm in denial about that.  
> Breizh Cola is a real thing, it's not great, but you'll find it everywhere here.  
> [This ](https://youtu.be/xm4P-OKi8xs)is the kind of band I'm imagining they hear at the start. (Also if you're curious as to what a bombarde sounds like.)


	4. Souvenirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martino has a lazy Saturday and Nico makes a proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been super sick and not making as much progress as I would like, but more is coming, thank you for your patience and to everybody who left kudos or commented!

On Saturday morning, Martino only wakes up when Filippo quietly leaves to go work on a group project a little before 11. The room is still in the dark and despite the worn-out mattress, he feels too comfortable to get up quite yet. After a long day of exploring the city and the museum, not to mention the concert - and meeting Niccolò, he wants to enjoy not having to be anywhere, not having to seek shelter from the rain but simply replaying his memories of the previous night. He takes out his phone and starts scrolling through Instagram and Snapchat to be met with a deluge of photos from Peccio’s birthday party. There’s familiar face after familiar face, all smiling, dancing and enjoying themselves and it’s almost enough to make him homesick as he looks at Elia and Marta in each other’s arms, Luca in the midst of a drinking game with some fourth years, Gio and Eva apparently dancing together, Fede, Sana and Silvia posing proudly, all his friends having the time of their lives. He’s tagged in some photos, half of which are captioned “Miss you” while the other half are slanderous accusations of desertion. He spends a while commenting on a few of them, laughing to himself as everybody seems to get more and more sober as he scrolls back to the start of the party.

It’s only the combined insistence of both his stomach and his bladder that convinces him to get up in the end. When he draws back the curtain to let in some light, he is met with a blinding sun and has to recoil in surprise after having only seen clouds and rain for two days. Through the window, he catches glimpses of students lounging outside on the grass, some only just walking home from wherever they spent their Friday nights, and the small dorm room suddenly feels claustrophobic. The weather’s too nice and he’s in too good a mood to remain cooped up. He makes himself coffee in the machine Filippo is not supposed to have in his room and steals a couple of biscuits to tide him over until he can find a more sustainable meal. It doesn’t take him long to get ready and soon enough, he’s heading towards the bus stop he’s now familiar with, fully intent on finding some of the souvenirs he promised his mother and his friends before his vacation is suddenly over and he has to settle for airport gifts.

 

On the bus, he first texts Filippo to let him know where he’ll be when he’s done. His next step is to open his conversation with the guys to ask how the party went. They are probably still asleep but Elia is usually an early riser, although less so since he started dating Marta, and he will probably have some stories to share. The first answer surprisingly comes from Luca.

“Marti, you’re alive!”

Elia’s comes right after with an emphatic assurance that Marti has missed the party of the year. It’s only April, so Martino is pretty confident he still has time to be here for the next party of the year. Luca launches into a series of texts describing Peccio’s latest attempt at craft beer, which is apparently “the best one so far”, despite Elia’s categorical claims to the contrary, justified by the line that immediately formed outside the bathroom after Peccio took out the first bottle.

“So, did Filippo find you a guy yet?” is Luca’s next question after he and Elia finally decide to agree to disagree on the matter.

In the past, Martino has sometimes wondered if Luca may have a weird kind of sixth sense which, instead of hinting at what is appropriate to ask somebody, steers him towards anything susceptible to make things uncomfortable. But for once, although the topic may have seemed sensitive at one time, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t let himself think about it too much before he replies,

“No, but I might have.”

Under his very eyes, the group chat blows up with exclamation points and a wave of emojis, from a simple series of thumbs ups to the guys trying to outdo each other with lewder and lewder combinations. Giovanni is apparently suddenly awake, probably alerted by his own sixth sense about anything involving Martino, and is joining in. Marti watches as they get more and more creative with a fond smile. A little over a year ago, he wouldn’t have imagined being able to have this conversation so casually. But he had worked up the courage to tell Gio one day, and then Elia and Luca and he had never regretted it since. The first one of the guys to regain the ability to form a coherent sentence is Elia.

“Tell me he’s not French!”

A laugh escapes him, startling the young woman who is sitting next to him. She gives Martino a smile when she realizes what the sound was and goes back to her book.

“Actually, he’s from Rome.”

And he tells them, and even though it’s been less than 24 hours since he met Nico, it already feels like there is a lot to tell. If only because it’s the first time Martino gets to talk to his friends about a boy he likes, and they’re full of questions and concerns. A year and a half ago, after he had almost hooked up with Emma at Federica’s party, only to be saved by Eva of all people, and for the following months, every time one of them had tried to bring her up, he had wanted nothing more than to change the subject, deflect, ignore that he was not feeling for her what Gio was feeling for Eva, what they were all feeling for the girls they met. Of course, he knows why. He always knew why, but it took months of not talking to his friends, sometimes straight up avoiding them, before he could admit it first to himself, and then to them. Today, they’re acting exactly like they did when Luca made out with Silvia at a party or when Elia first started waxing poetics about Marta even though he barely knew her. They ask, and he answers what he can, still trying not to reveal too much, like the fact that he would be the first to not understand why he felt so immediately comfortable with Niccolò or that he’s already worried at the idea of not seeing him again until they are both back in Rome. Before he’s realized it, the bus stops in the town center and he tells the guys he’ll talk to them later.

 

Trying to remember when Filippo dragged him throughout the maze of almost identical paved and narrow streets of the center, he goes in search of souvenir shops. It doesn’t take him too long to find one. It’s filled with food, caramels, cider, striped sweaters, raincoats, stuffed seagulls, decorations featuring boats, faeries or elves, cans of fish, fish soup, fish-shaped chocolates, fish everything. After a few stores, he settles on buying sweets that won’t cost him what is left of his budget and finds a pendant for his mother. By the checkout, he holds up and considers a pipe band CD on sale for Filippo before renouncing to sacrificing his depleting finances for the sake of a joke. He settles for sending him a picture of the cover instead, feeling pretty proud of himself when Filippo shoots back an “Is that a threat?” in response. Now that he’s done with his shopping, he doesn’t feel that much like traipsing through the town center again. He opens Google Maps and zooms out from his location until he locates a park within walking distance and heads this way with every intention of finding himself a sun-drenched bench and possibly napping the rest of the afternoon away. He’s almost there when Filippo texts him again, asking where they can meet up.

 

By the time, Filippo finds him, Martino has found better than a bench. He has managed to locate a patch of grass which has been dried enough by the morning sun and is just on the right side of damp. He has sprawled there and has taken up a conversation with only Gio this time, who is being his usual concerned self and trying to not-so-subtly garner more information about Niccolò.

“Well, you’ve been busy.”

Martino looks up to find Filippo looking down at him with his hands on his hips, a stance which is eerily reminiscent of his ever-disapproving history teacher.

“I’m on vacation, I’ll remind you. How was the group thing?”

“Let’s not talk about that, it’s a group project, of course it was shit. One of the guys was hungover, another one was sick, so we didn’t get much done,” he sighs as he settles himself next to Martino and lies down on the grass, closing his eyes. “This is so nice. I take it back, you know how to live.”

Martino smiles proudly before going back to his conversation with Gio.

“Who’re you texting?” Filippo asks in a sing-song voice that makes his suspicions very clear.

“Gio, of course, who else?”

“Ah, telling your friends about the cute boy already, I see.”

“How would you know, maybe I’m telling him about all the _amazing_ cultural experiences I’ve been having.”

“Sarcasm? Is this how you repay me for everything I do for you?”

“I didn’t get you that CD, that’s how I repay you.”

Martino looks down to his phone as it buzzes, expecting to see a new message from Gio, only to find he hasn’t responded to his last question yet. Looking up, he notices the text alert and his heart skips a beat. He doesn’t know that many people who actually send texts. He opens the message from Niccolò.

“I hope you got back okay last night, you missed out on the big finale.”

“We caught the bus, it was fine. I hope you filmed that big finale, you can show me sometime.”

Martino considers the text for a second before sending it. If he can tell his friends about him, he can tell Nico he wants to see him again. He spends the next few moments thinking how much he usually hates the three dots which make the thought process of whoever he is talking to all too clear. But now, confronted with a completely silent text conversation, he feels like he may have to revisit his opinion. Finally, a new text arrives. Gio’s conversation is momentarily forgotten as he opens it.

“About that, have you been to Saint-Malo yet? Do you want to go tomorrow?”

Martino looks up from his phone, his heart beating a little faster, as it does every time Niccolò seems eager to spend more time with him, towards Filippo who is still sunbathing with his eyes closed.

“Fili, Saint-Malo, that’s the walled city you were telling me about, right? The one on the seaside?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Actually, I was thinking we could go tomorrow or Monday since I’ll be on vacation then. And they’re forecasting at least two whole days without rain, so we better put them to good use.”

When he receives no answer, he opens his eyes and glances a few times between Martino who is biting his lip and the phone he is holding before his eyebrows shoot up.

“Unless you’ve got a better offer?”

“It’s just, Nico was asking if I wanted to go tomorrow.”

A hint of guilt appears at the back of his mind as he tells himself that he came here to spend time with Filippo, so he adds, although not quite convincingly, “I mean, we can still…”

Filippo doesn’t even let him finish.

“Marti, that’s very sweet of you, but I know you don’t mean that.”

Martino breathes out a relieved sigh.

“Thanks.”

“It’s your vacation, you do you.”

Filippo’s lips twitch and Martino cuts him off before he can even begin forming the joke.

“Don’t say ‘And do him’, I’m begging you.”

“Ah, you know me too well, it’s no fun. But I still think it’s solid advice.”

Martino picks up his forgotten phone to reply. They only have time to make plans to meet at the train station at 10 before Niccolò excuses himself to go join Yuna on a bike ride. The notifications on his phone remind him that he was talking to Giovanni so he goes back to WhatsApp.

“I’m gonna go take some pictures, okay? You staying here?” Filippo is suddenly up and nodding towards the rest of the park.

“Sure.”

Martino reads Giovanni’s last messages, in which he has switched to complaining about the fact that his dad has apparently realized that his son had exams coming up and decided to tighten the screw and that he was done with parties after coming home too late for his liking last night. Martino sympathizes and pitches in with a couple of stories about his own dad, who every once in a while seems to remember he also has a kid in high school and tries to parent. Giovanni eventually has to head out as well to fulfill a promise to take his brother skating.

 

Left alone with his thoughts and nobody around to chat, at least nobody he wants to actually have a conversation with - the radio group chat is almost always active, and even though Martino has taken a liking to it, he doesn’t want to have to think about it right now - he starts looking around him. There are groups of people his own age or college students who are also lounging in the grass but clearly came more prepared. Some have music, some have food and drinks, some seem to have brought board games and blankets. There are families strolling around, from little kids to grandparents who have to rely on a sympathetic relative to make their way around, even on the more even ground. It’s all very peaceful and nice. Not sure where the feeling comes from, Martino decides now would be a good time to call his mom. She will probably reach out later today either way, and it will make her happy that he took the initiative. The phone rings for long enough that he thinks for a moment that she is busy and will not even pick up, but she does in the end, as he’s about to hang up and go back to people watching.

“Hi, honey.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised, and Martino is glad he followed his instincts.

“Hey, mom. How are you?”

A bout of motivation has apparently led her to undertake some spring cleaning and she takes some time describing some of the old stuff she found at the bottom of cupboards and drawers. She sounds less harried and more content than she had for the past week or so, as if the effects of a sunny day in a city in Brittany had managed to spread as far as their flat in Rome. In exchange, he describes the band from last night’s concert, the dancers, the city looking suddenly more alive in the sun, the souvenirs, the pictures from the party he missed, the flowers and the birds in the park. There’s no real reason for these daily phone calls, except that he assumes that they help distract her, even if they don’t necessarily have that much to tell each other.

“Are you going to do something special for Easter?” He asks when he’s run out of things to tell her about.

There’s a short silence before she answers.

“Yes, Teresa invited me for dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

After another pause, she adds, “I’m not sure if I’ll go yet.”

Martino takes a deep breath to tamp down on the frustration he feels rising every time his mother says something like that. The conversation had been so nice so far. He doesn’t want it to end in annoyance and recriminations.

“Why not? I thought you got on really well. You always say you have a good time when you see her.”

She doesn’t reply and he takes it as an encouraging sign.

“I think you should go. And you don’t have to stay for too long if you don’t want to. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“We’ll see”, she answers finally, in a voice he knows too well, a voice that doesn’t want to argue. And as if she wants to make sure the conversation doesn’t get derailed as well, she adds, “So are you boys doing anything special this weekend?”

Maybe because it’s still fresh in his mind, the words “We’re going to Saint-Malo” slip out before he can think about it. He manages to tell her about it by staying vague enough and by soon bringing the conversation to a close so she has no reason to believe that he is going with anybody else but Filippo. Technically, he doesn’t lie, she just never did ask who he was going with. She just assumed. When he doesn’t really believe his own excuse, he attempts weakly to convince himself that she worries enough about him without needing another reason. When that doesn’t work either, he tells himself that it’s not a conversation to have over the phone and with 1,300 kilometers between them. He finds his earphones and plugs them into his phone, lies back down on the grass, and using Filippo’s camera bag as a pillow, he closes his eyes as he tries to forget about it and lose himself in the music.

 

When Filippo finds him again, he’s been dozing, slipping in and out of consciousness along with the music. They decide to walk back to the dorm as they have no obligations and nobody is expecting them anywhere. On the way, Filippo turns to him.

“So, are you going tomorrow then?”

“Oh, sure. I’m meeting him at 10 at the station.”

“Good, that’ll give me some time to actually study.”

“So you’re not worried about him anymore?”

“You survived last night, I think you’ll be fine. I decided to trust you. And give him a chance.”

“And we’re both honored,” Martino deadpans.

Filippo shoves him in response.

“And you remembered that you weren’t actually my dad?”

“Yeah, that, too. I’m way too young to have a kid in high school. I don’t want to age prematurely because of you.”

The subject reminds Martino of his phone call earlier, so he continues,

“Oh, and I called my mom.”

“That’s nice, how is she doing?”

Martino makes a non-committal noise.

“Better today. I never thought I’d look forward to the divorce being finalized. But the dragging on, it’s making it worse for her.”

“Yeah, I guess, it’s probably better when you know for sure that you can move on with your life. When are they seeing the lawyers?”

“Thursday. She’s having dinner tomorrow with one of her friends, maybe it’ll help take her mind off things, too.”

Filippo squeezes his shoulder sympathetically.

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

They make dinner in the messy shared kitchen to avoid spending more money neither of them really has and bring the food to the common room, where some action movie from the 1990s is playing and a few students with no plans have gathered to chat or just be somewhere that is not their room. It only takes a little over twenty minutes for Filippo to find and make friends with an American exchange student from Chicago who volunteers at an LGBT center. Meanwhile Martino half-watches the movie and tries to sustain a conversation in a mix of French and English with two engineering students who went to Italy during their last holidays and seem to have a million questions about it. When the guy from Chicago leaves the room after exchanging names and contact information with Filippo, Martino excuses himself from the two girls and slides next to him on the couch.

“So…” He drags along the one syllable and raises an eyebrow for good measure.

Filippo flat out laughs at him.

“If you’re trying to meddle or give me a taste of my own medicine, you’re so off the mark. You clearly haven’t heard how he talks about his boyfriend. It’s just always nice to have people to exchange ideas with.”

“Oh.”

“But nice try.”

“So, do gay people always just flock to you?” Martino teases.

“You mean like you did?”

“Um, I’ll remind you that _you_ flocked to me if anything.”

“I did? Then who texted back asking for advice because he was afraid of his girlfriend?”

Martino pushes himself off the couch to be on the same eye level as Filippo, outrage etched in every line of his face.

“I wasn’t afraid of Emma!”

“Fine, you were afraid of what the fact that you didn’t want to have sex with her said about you. Better?”

Martino drops back down on the sofa without another word. The problem with his relationship with Filippo, no matter how helpful he had been, was that he knew too much. Martino sometimes remembers their very first few interactions, and wonders how he managed to make such a friend out of him after he had seen him at some of his lowest points. He wasn’t very proud of how he had handled a lot of things at the time when they had met, be it his own relationship with Emma or Gio and Eva's. He had backed himself into a corner and hurt more people than he had ever meant to, only making it worse for everybody as he tried to extract himself from it. Emma had eventually accepted his apology, vague as it was, as to why their relationship had suddenly crashed and burned in a way she had never fully understood. They weren’t friends exactly but they were back on speaking terms, which everybody agreed made radio meetings far less tense and uncomfortable. And thankfully for him, the people who had seen at his worst were also good enough themselves to have been able to move past it and give him a second chance. First among them, Filippo had shrugged off any apology and provided advice and comfort as needed as if was the most natural thing in the world. Again, tonight, seeing that Martino is closing himself off, he nudges him gently.

“Hey, Marti. I was kidding.”

With a smile and remembering how he had felt, warm and at peace laying down in the grass, Martino replies,

“No, you’re right. And I’m lucky I flocked to you. I don’t know where I’d be otherwise.”

Filippo is taken aback by the sudden change in tone and for a second, looks genuinely touched. But he quickly gets over it and reaches out to ruffle Martino’s hair.

“Aw, gee, you’re going to make me cry.”

 

They end up watching a couple of re-runs of CSI once the movie is done and head back to the room sometime after midnight. As he slips into his sleeping bag, Martino checks his phone one last time and finds a text, sent about ten minutes earlier.

“See you tomorrow :)”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think Filippo would end up being so present, but I really love writing them together.  
> By the way, Nico has a smartphone to make things easier for him while he's abroad, he's just not on any social media.  
> Massive thanks to [Colette](http://colettefemmedeletre.wordpress.com/) for letting me write on her couch and annoy her cat for three days.


	5. Castaways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marti and Nico go to Saint-Malo and make a new friend.

On the 10:11 to Saint-Malo, Martino and Niccolò find two opposite window seats next to an elderly couple.

“Have you already been?” Niccolò asks, as soon as the train starts moving.

“Oh, no. I’ve only been here for three days. Have you?”

“Yeah, a few times. My uncle took me and Yuna when we were younger. And we went back in October, before the weather turned too shitty.”

“So you’re already an expert?”

Niccolò leans forward and places his hand on Martino’s forearm to declare solemnly,

“Don’t worry, I will be your tour guide.”

“Okay,” Martino laughs. “And what does the tour guide recommend?”

He sits back and thinks about it for a moment before replying, gazing through the window as if looking for inspiration. Martino finds the sight endlessly amusing and watches as the cogs turn in his head.

“Well, it’s mostly the walled city itself, the small streets, the old buildings, lots of tourist shops, if you’re not bored of those yet. The view from up the walls is pretty nice. Oh!” He exclaims as if suddenly remembering something. “Actually, there’s something I’d love to see if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t know much about the area, so we can do whatever you want”, Martino shrugs.

With a pleased smile, Niccolò continues.

“There’s a sort-of-island, right outside the walls where Chateaubriand is buried. I’d love to see that. Last time we went, I didn’t know who he was, but Francesco had a translation of his autobiography, and I read it this winter.”

“Who’s... Chateaubriand?” Martino tries to wrap his mouth around the unfamiliar name. It doesn’t sound quite right, but Nico doesn't correct him.

"He was a writer and politician from the 18th century, I think, maybe 19th. He was born in Saint-Malo and he asked to be buried on that island, where there’s nothing but his grave and he’s looking out at the ocean.”

“And… you want to see his grave?”

“Well… yeah,” Nico answers, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. “I really loved his book.”

“Okay.”

“The thing is, you can only get to the island when the tide is low. The rest of the time, the walkway that leads there is underwater. And I looked up the times of the tide, it will be low when we get there, so it’s our only chance.”

“Sure, then, let’s do that. Is it big, the island?”

“Not really. As I remember it, it’s just kind of a big rock.”

“You’re not really selling it, what kind of tour guide are you?”

“I’m sorry, last time I went on it was, like, six years ago. And if you knew about Chateaubriand, it would be easier for me to sell it to you. He’s a cornerstone of French literature, Marti.”

“Come on, not you too!”

Niccolò blinks confusedly at Martino’s reaction, and the old man next to him looks between them, obviously curious at this outburst.

“What?”

“Filippo’s been trying to paint everything we do as some kind of big cultural experience. We can just go check out the dead guy on a rock if that’s what you want.”

“I think you should be the tour guide instead. You definitely have a knack for it.”

 

The journey passes quickly, and Niccolò even manages to charm the old lady into offering them buttery cookies that she seems more than happy to part with. Before they know it, an hour as passed and the conductor is announcing they are approaching Saint-Malo. They join the file of people exiting the train, and as soon as he steps onto the platform, Niccolò bounces excitedly towards the station, with Martino following eagerly, happy to spend some time just the two of them, undisturbed, to explore a new town and to get a whiff of sea air. They follow the signs and the flow of people to the harbor, walk through the boats stationed there as the walled city detaches itself in the background. It looks pretty severe from a distance, the dark stones contrasting against the backdrop of the blue sky, speckled with fluffy white clouds and bands of squawking seagulls. As they approach the ramparts, however, Niccolò steers them away towards a parking lot that stands to the side.

“We’ll see the city later, come on.”

 

They walk across the parking lot before stepping down a flight of stairs which leads them to the beach. As they walk across the sand towards what does look like a big rock with nothing on it, pointing out anything they see to each other, a kite in the sky, a dog chasing a wave, a toddler waddling on the wet sand, Martino’s mind wanders. He wonders how he ended up here, following a guy he spent less than a day with and why it seems like the most natural thing in the world. Exchanging words in Italian in front of that statue in the museum had just felt like falling into pace with Nico and like they’ve been heading in the same direction ever since. He wonders if Niccolò feels it too. Niccolò, who had been stopping every once in a while to pick up bits of seashells, rocks or polished pieces of green glass, discarding some and pocketing others for reasons known only to himself, interrupts his train of thoughts by handing him his latest find. It’s a small orange seashell, pretty dull on the outside, but whose pearly inside catches the light as if it was made of a much more precious material. It has been polished and smoothed out by the sand, but only looks softer for the wear.

“Thank you. What do you want me to do with that?” Martino asks, delicately turning it over to examine it.

Niccolò shrugs.

“Whatever you want.”

And Martino thinks, maybe he does feel it too.

 

As they get closer to the rock, Martino points and asks, “This is it, right?”

“Yep, that’s Le Grand Bé.”

Martino may not have an exceptional command of French, but he understands enough to chuckle at the name.

“Le Grand Bé? Like… a big B?”

“Don’t ask me, I didn’t pick the name.”

“Okay, so where’s the little B?”

“Actually, you can’t see it, but it’s right behind it,” Nico replies evenly, also pointing at something beyond the island.

“Are you serious? There's a little B?”

“I swear to you. It’s basic tour guide etiquette. Can’t lie.”

“And where’s the medium B, then?”

“I think… it sank.”

“It sank?” Martino repeats, the disbelief clear in his tone.

“Yep. Like Atlantis. And then, a civilization developed there, right under the sea between the little and the big B. But you gotta be invited to visit and I don’t have the connections,” Nico confirms, growing more confident with the tale he is obviously making up as he goes.

“I see. Well, you were right. You certainly can’t lie.”

Niccolò elbows him in answer, and the stone walkway leading to the island finally comes into view. The walk from the station took them almost half an hour in addition to the time spent treading in the sand, where every step requires twice as much effort as usual, so by now, Martino is starting to feel hungry. Niccolò seems intent on going to see the grave and if they only have limited time, he can probably suffer hunger for a little bit. In the meantime, he just stares enviously at the people taking out sandwiches out of their backpacks or having ice cream on the beach. As they’re starting to climb up the island itself, they move out of the way of a group of German tourists coming back down on the narrow path, and it is when Martino finds himself standing right behind Nico that his stomach decides to make itself known by growling loudly. The sound makes Nico turn around with a delighted expression.

“Hungry?”

“A little bit. But it can totally wait. We can go if you want to see… what’s-his-name’s grave.”

“Oh, but we can eat first if you want. I brought food!”

“You did?” Martino can’t hide his surprise at the news. He hadn’t given any thought about where they were going to eat.

“Sure. I wasn't going to let you starve.”

“I mean, I wasn’t worried. Surely, they have food in this city.”

“Well, yes, but it's a long weekend, so everywhere will be packed, and the cheapest stuff probably won't be great. And since we were going to be here anyway, might as well make it a picnic, don't you think?”

It’s a particularly sunny day, and it would be warm if it were not for the slightly cool wind that is blowing above the sea, they have a nice view of the walls of the city on one side and the ocean on the other, and if Nico is willing to provide the food, Martino wholeheartedly agrees.

“That does sound pretty great.”

They walk almost to the top of the small island, find a spot somewhat apart from the other groups of people who have had the same idea and settle down. Martino turns his face to the sun to try and soak in some of its warmth, while Niccolò places the backpack he has been carrying with him between them. He opens it and stops, taking a deep breath as if to psych himself up.

“Full disclosure, Yuna cooked.”

“Okay. Should I be worried?”

“She insisted. She says I’m a menace in the kitchen.”

“Are you?”

“I’ve been feeding myself and I’m still alive, so I’d say it’s an exaggeration. But she made zucchini bread yesterday and she said I should take what was left of it.”

“And is she better at that than she is at carbonara?” Martino has to ask, remembering the disgust on Nico's face at the sole reminder of the dish.

“Yes. She can actually cook, just not Italian. Or not actual Italian anyway. And she wouldn’t let me buy anything ready-made.”

“She’s a little controlling, isn’t she?”

“Don’t ever say that to her face.” Nico warns, his eyebrows shooting up, before adding, “But yes, she can be.”

He takes out a package wrapped in tin foil and places it on the ground between them before bringing out a bag of chips and a plastic container of cherry tomatoes. Everything is soon opened and tried out, the zucchini bread is judged extremely favorably while the tomatoes taste of basically nothing. Nico also provides two cans of room temperature Coke with an apologetic grimace.

“That was nice of Yuna to give that to you. It's good.”

“She wouldn’t exactly take no for an answer. But she'll be glad you said that. Although, it might get to her head."

“What could you have possibly cooked for her that she thinks you're a menace?”

“Well, there may have been what we’ll call experimentations a few times when it was just the two of us. So I get where she’s coming from. But she refuses to believe that those were not representative of my cooking skills. Something about burning an omelet. Once. It happened once,” he quickly adds when Martino chokes on a sip of Coke at this information.

“I’m sure. And who hasn’t had some iffy experiments while cooking?” Martino replies, remembering how a few instances of trying to make food in the middle of the night after one too many drinks had resulted in rather questionable combinations of flavors.

“Exactly! And does that make you a menace?”

He keeps looking expectantly at Martino, so the question must not be as rhetorical as it sounds.

“I don’t think so. I’ve never burned an omelet.”

 

Once they've packed up the leftovers and anything they might have left behind, Niccolò leads them back towards the edge of the island, where most people seem to be headed. Soon, after a turn in the path, Martino can see what their destination is as the grave appears in between the throng of visitors. They follow the path until it reaches a small clearing where the grave stands alone, surrounded by a rail that anybody could step over if they really wanted to. People, however, stick to standing around it, reading the engravings or the plaque that is set into a small stone wall. The grave faces the open expanse of the ocean, as if the writer underneath was lounging here, still enjoying the sight of the ebb and flow, the ballet of the birds flying above them and the small boats and massive ferries crossing paths on their way to or from the UK or the neighboring islands. It is pretty simple, just a tombstone and a cross, bearing the name “François-René de Chateaubriand”. A dried bouquet of flowers has been laid out over it. After letting his eyes run over the sea and what he can see of the coastline, and taking a few deep breaths of sea air, Martino turns around to address Niccolò as he finally makes his way close enough to the grave to have a good look at it, only to realize he is no longer behind him. He steps aside, letting more people approach with their cameras at the ready and retraces his step to find him standing at the entrance of the terrace, leaning against the wall, also looking out at the sea. He joins him there.

“That’s a nice view to have for eternity.”

Nico glances at him before returning his eyes to the horizon.

“Yes, it’s beautiful. But you don’t think it must get lonely?”

Martino looks back at the grave, surrounded by tourists snapping pictures, chatting, laughing, as well as children calling out to each other or running around. Right now, the place is looking like pretty much the opposite of lonely.

“Lonely?”

“Yeah, he's all alone on an island that’s cut out from the mainland half the time, with just the ocean surrounding him when the tide is high. Nobody can really stick around for long, except for the birds, and even they move on at some point.”

He trails off and he looks almost forlorn, so Martino leans against the wall next to him, close enough that his arm brushes against Nico's, hoping to bring some comfort.

“Maybe but… if he’s been dead for 200 years, I’m not sure that he cares that much.”

That does draw a smile from Niccolò, who turns back to him and points at the plaque fixed on the stone next to him.

“Maybe not. And I mean, this says that he wanted to rest here so he could hear nothing but the wind and the sea. If he picked this spot, he may not have been a big fan of people.”

“If he wasn't, he’s gotta be pissed. Look at all these people surrounding him, talking over him, blocking his view.”

“You're right. Maybe he's even glad when the tide rises and he finally gets some peace and quiet.”

“See, not so lonely after all.”

 

They push themselves off the wall and go back to the path, following it around the island leisurely. Niccolò still seems deep in thoughts.

“So being stranded on a desert island wouldn’t be your thing?” Martino asks.

“Not really, no. Why, would you like that? Being a castaway with no tools or technology to make your life easier? Just having to rely on yourself and no help at all?”

“I could always make friends with, I don't know, a coconut or something. That's usually what happens in the movies, right? And if I knew I was being rescued or if I had a way out, then maybe it could be like an adventure, a way to test my limits. Some people do that kind of stuff."

“Of course, if you know that help is coming and you know when it’s going to come, then sure. But that’s not how it would happen if you were actually stranded. You wouldn’t know how long it could last and you couldn’t be sure that somebody is actually coming.”

They walk a few more steps in silence before Nico speaks again.

“Wait, so does that mean I'm your coconut while you're here, stranded in France?”

“Don't sell yourself short, you're much more interesting than a coconut.”

Nico laughs and places a hand on his heart.

“Thank you.”

They stop on a more quiet stretch of the path to look at the view of the city that is offered to them from where they stand. Stepping closer to the edge to take a photo, Nico suddenly exclaims,

“Marti, come over here!”

Whereas along the rest of the island, the rocks fall sharply straight into the sea, making it pretty much impossible even for the most daring climber to get down safely, right below them, the rocks dips before forming a narrow platform that seems reachable for anyone who is ready to get on their hands and knees and risk a few scratches. Niccolò, it seems, is ready to do both. He takes a quick look around to make sure nobody is going to stop him and starts climbing down, with an ease that indicates that he’s done this before, effortlessly finding crevices with his feet and his hands. He jumps the last few centimeters down onto the platform and looks up with a grin.

“Come down, it's not that hard.”

Martino slowly sits down on the edge, ready to make his way down as well, although his descent is not nearly as smooth. Below him, he can hear Nico shouting encouragements and suggesting where he can place his foot and when he's almost there, he can even feel a gentle hand guide his ankle to a better spot. He doesn't jump, just feels out for the solid ground and lowers himself next to Niccolò on the platform, just large enough for two, when his foot finds a patch of wet rock and slips. Surprised, he stumbles and grips the wall next to him for balance while Niccolò steadies him quickly with a hand to his hip.

“Hey, careful.”

“Thanks.”

If Martino was going to joke about his near accident, the words die down in his throat when the pressure on his hip becomes heavier and he meets Nico’s eyes, finding the same look he saw there at the end of the evening on Friday night. Now, there's no phone to interrupt, no friends to meet with, at least not until much later tonight. They're close enough already that they both only need to take the smallest step forward for their lips to meet. Martino's arm moves of its own accord to wrap itself around Niccolò’s back and bring him even closer. Niccolò soon mirrors the motion by sliding his arm around his waist. Martino can feel his other hand on the nape of his neck, cradling the back of his head. They hold onto each other, pressed against the rock wall surrounding them, as the waves crash a few meters below them and the wind howls way above them, and in the blink of an eye, it’s like there’s only him and Niccolò, castaways on what might as well be a rock in the middle of the ocean. Niccolò lets go of his waist to cradle his face and he continues kissing him as a smile grows on Martino’s face. If he could think clearly about anything other than Nico, Nico’s hands and his mouth and the warmth of his body between his and the cold air, he could almost believe he’ll never have another reason to stop smiling. When they stop for a second or two, finally, just long enough to drink each other in, Nico is smiling too, and he pushes a strand of hair away from Martino's forehead with such gentleness that the gesture seems overwhelmingly intimate. Martino wants to kiss him again. And when he does he can both hear and feel the short huff of air from a laugh as he closes the distance between them. Nico doesn't need to be told twice and follows his lead, both hands back at the nape of Martino's neck.

 

How long passes, Martino would not be able to say. It's probably only a matter of minutes, but it almost feels like lifetimes. Neither of them tries to deepen the kiss that much, just content on discovering each other while they are still both very aware of their precarious position. Halfway between the path above and the sea below, they know they have limited time before they have to climb back up and that any sudden or uncontrolled movement could lead to a potentially harmful tumble down into the water.

“Hey! Down there!”

The voice shouting in French from above crashes between them unexpectedly. They both separate and look up as one. At the edge of the path, a man is looking down at them, his hands around his mouth to make himself heard. Martino doesn't really follow the conversation, knows just enough by the calm manner with which Nico responds to him that nothing bad is happening. While the exchange takes places, he contents himself with looking at Niccolò, with his red cheeks and disheveled hair, wondering if he’s in the same state but not caring that much. Niccolò finally closes the conversation with a “Merci!” shouted seemingly towards the sky and looks back down at Martino. Neither of them moves for a few more seconds.

“What did he say?” Martino finally asks.

“He says the tide is rising and we should get going if we don't want to get stuck here.”

“Oh. I guess we should go then.”

“I guess.”

Reluctantly, Martino climbs back up, and as soon as he is back on the ground, Niccolò follows. Martino extends his hand to help him up over the edge and even as they find the path again and follow the last stragglers back towards the walkway, Niccolò doesn’t let go. They hurry, walking close together, elated, and Nico sighs as the passage comes into view, already covered up by the rising water.

“I kinda wish we didn't have to go.”

“Oh, _now_ you want to get stranded on an island?” Martino retorts, as they stop a few meters short of the way out of the island and back into the real world.

“But there’d be two of us. Wouldn’t you like that? Just you and me, the ocean and the gulls and we could hang out with François-René. That’d make a nice change for him.”

“Don’t you think we’d get cold? Or hungry?”

“I'm sure we could find something to eat, and you said you could cook, Mr. I’ve-never-burned-an-omelet.”

“What do you want to cook here? There’s no trees or plants, no animals. It’s just grass and seagulls and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t make things easy for us.”

“Surely, there's gotta be fish. We could catch some.”

Martino laughs.

“With what?”

When Niccolò doesn't reply and just pouts instead of accepting defeat, he pulls at his hand slightly to motion him forward.

“Come on, I want to see the rest of the city.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For reference, this is the [passage ](https://www.aupaysdesaintmalo.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/dsc-0312-1024x687.jpg)from Saint-Malo to Le Grand Bé, as seen from the island at low tide. And here is [Chateaubriand's grave](https://www.aupaysdesaintmalo.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/dsc-02681-1024x687.jpg).
> 
> Special thanks to [Colette](http://colettefemmedeletre.wordpress.com/) as always.


	6. The Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marti and Nico go and explore the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I only just realized that in chapter 3, when Nico's talking about art, I got Dali and Magritte mixed up because I really shouldn't trust my memory on anything, so I'm sorry, I fixed it. Nico was talking about Magritte. Anyway, moving on.

They only take a few steps, however, before they have to stop to take off their shoes and roll over their jeans to cross back as the water is already reaching above their ankles. They are not the only ones who tried to stay as long as possible and the other stragglers around them seem to be enjoying the experience of having almost, but not quite, become stranded on an island. It’s the safest adventure they could have had. Martino keeps leading Nico away towards the walls towering above the beach. Around them, people are also starting to make preparations for the rising tide and moving their towels and toys further up the sand. The most cautious among them also make their way towards the city before the beach partly disappears underwater, as the walkway or, supposedly, the medium B did. When Martino and Niccolò reach a staircase heading up into the city, they finally stop to brush the sand off their feet and put their shoes back on.

 

As soon as they step into the walled city itself, Martino starts to realize that their plan presents one major flaw. Now that he’s started, all he wants is to keep kissing Niccolò, and they’re stuck in a touristic place on Easter, with people everywhere and no way to get some privacy. Not that he doesn’t enjoy walking along the narrow street bumping into Nico every few steps as they keep trying to walk closer to each other, he just wishes they had a place to get back to after this, a place where they could be alone without having to consider crowds or tide times. But Nico is expected at his uncle's for dinner and Filippo will be waiting for him, although Martino is pretty sure that he wouldn't mind if he were to get back later than planned. He might even be kinda proud. And the end of June sounds so far away right now. When Niccolò takes his hand again and leads him into a side street, though, he firmly pushes the thought away. It's a worry for another day. Or for tonight. Not for right now anyway. Now, it's just them and Saint-Malo, to do what they want and to enjoy together.

They take their time, looking up at the tall, grey buildings, stopping to glance in the windows of every shop that draws their attention, going into every other store, just out of curiosity or sometimes puzzlement. After a couple of streets, with the flow of people swarming past them and now that they are sheltered from the wind, Martino starts to feel warm and takes off his hoodie, tying it around his waist so he can keep his hands free. When he notices the movement, Niccolò turns to him before letting out an exclamation of surprise.

"You've got a tattoo.”

He takes Martino’s arm like he’s afraid of breaking it and pushes back the sleeve of his tee-shirt just enough to uncover it completely. He looks at it for a few seconds, tracing the outline with his thumb, sending a shiver down Martino’s spine.

“I like it. But I wouldn’t have pegged you for a tattoo guy."

"Thanks!" Martino laughs. “Why, do you think I look boring?”

“No, you look...” He gives Martino’s jeans and tee-shirt a pointed once-over, which feels completely undeserved given that he is wearing pretty much the same thing. He has an amused look on his face when he continues, “Well, maybe a little bit. But I guess I know better now.”

He leaves Marti’s arm alone to kiss him again.

"But now I wonder, what else are you hiding?" He continues with a quirked eyebrow as he breaks the kiss, much to Martino's dismay.

“Well, maybe I've got more, for a start.”

Being interrupted mid-kiss seems almost worth it just for the look on Niccolò’s face.

“You do?”

Martino nods, more than a little proud of himself. When he and Elia had gone to get their tattoos done together, he would never have imagined that almost two years later, they would win him points with a guy like Niccolò. But then again, almost two years ago, he wouldn't have known what to make of a guy like Niccolò and the way he made him feel.

“Where?” Niccolò asks again, a glint in his eyes that is making Martino feel even warmer.

“That's a secret.”

They're both on his ankle, but he doesn’t need to know that. If Nico didn't notice while they were crossing from the island with their jeans rolled up to keep them dry because he was too busy trying not to slip on the wet stones, then that’s on him.

“A secret,” Nico is laughing now. “You're a real man of mystery.”

"Oh, like you've got nothing to hide?"

Nico looks at him for a moment with a little smile before shrugging.

“Well, if I’ve got a tattoo, I’m not telling you where it is either.”

“I could find it,” Martino retorts before realizing what he's just said.

Nico takes a step closer to him and his hand comes to rest on Martino's hip again.

“I’m sure you could.”

Martino kisses him because he can and immediately remembers that they are standing right outside the entrance of one of a million tourist shops. Niccolò doesn't seem to mind that the kiss is cut short, he just drags Martino with him inside to look at the same fish-themed souvenirs they've been seeing everywhere. This time, he buys two caramel-flavored lollipops for Yuna as thanks for the food.

 

They keep strolling through the streets, sticking close together, happy enough with each other's company, the city around them and the sunny weather until they don't even really regret not being alone anymore. Once they've walked through what seems like every single cobbled street, or at least enough of them that they all seem to blend together, they stop at a café on a small square. The terrace is packed but they manage to find two chairs and a wobbly table under a tree. The waitress looks rushed but gives them a bright smile and seems to enjoy hearing their Italian accent. When she comes back with their drinks, she tries to ask where they’re from only to be waved over to another table and having to leave again with an apologetic shrug. Martino looks around him at the square, the happy buzz of people enjoying a beautiful day out, the children chasing each other, the groups of friends laughing over their drinks and Niccolò, sitting next to him, his head tilted back, eyes closed to enjoy a ray of sunshine that is falling right on his face. Niccolò, perhaps sensing that he is being watched, opens his eyes to meet Martino's with the expression of a man without a care in the world.

“What?”

Martino doesn’t answer right away but instead leans forward to trace his cheekbone, and Nico closes his eyes again under the touch. He looks more than ever like his grandmother’s cat when he is basking in a sunbeam coming through the window.

“Nothing,” Martino finally replies, unsure how to put words on everything he’s feeling at this moment.

Nico takes his hand, and they stay like that for a few minutes longer, not talking but just drinking in the moment until they start noticing people around them looking from café to café for an empty table, and they decide to leave their seats for the next people who need a break in the sun.

 

“Want to go up there?” Niccolò asks after they've been wandering around again, looking for where to go next, with a nod towards the staircase leading up the ramparts.

“Sure. I think we've seen pretty much everything that's down here.”

“And I would be remiss as a guide if I didn't give you the full historical tour.”

They step aside at the bottom of the stairs to let a young couple carrying a stroller walk down safely before making their way up themselves. From above, they have the maze of streets sprawled at their feet on one side and the expanse of the ocean on the other. The tide has visibly risen while they were exploring, and the stronger waves are coming closer and closer to the foot of the walls. Following the path set by the ramparts, they take their time admiring the view. They watch for a moment as a massive ferry freshly arrived starts disembarking its passengers, entire buses driving out of the hold.

They continue along the way until they find themselves on a wide terrace, where they squeeze themselves against a stretch of wall that has not been commandeered yet by amateur photographers and lean against it to stare out at the sea. Next to them, two girls are arguing in a language Martino doesn't recognize and trying to find the right angle to take a selfie together. When they notice him watching, one of them asks in English if he would take the photo for them. He complies happily, while Nico stands beside him and gives him wildly conflicting advice on how to take the best picture, until Martino has to ask him to go fuck himself if he’s not going to be helpful. The girls follow the scene gleefully and when Martino hands back the camera, they offer to take one for them as well. He turns to Niccolò hesitantly, wanting to say yes, to have a memento of the day, hoping he won’t mind. Niccolò is already nodding and thanking the girls. Martino hands one of them his phone and they settle against the wall, not quite sure how to pose for the picture. In the end, Nico's arm which he had rested on the wall finds its way onto Martino's shoulders, and he slides closer at the touch. They grin at the camera.

 

They continue their way along the ramparts. After walking all day, Martino's feet are getting sore and they are moving more slowly, stopping every few meters to look at the view, sometimes just look at each other or kiss. They've stopped again on top of a tower, where the path makes a sharp angle as it follows the coast below them. They have leaned their arms on top of the wall and Martino's chin is resting on his hands, while Niccolò is looking out at the sea. Martino is trying to ignore the fact that the sun is definitely on a journey down in the sky, making the day progressively cooler. He’s already had to put his hoodie back on, which had drawn an unhappy noise from Niccolò who had lamented losing the sight of his tattoo.

“I wish we could go swimming,” Nico sighs.

Martino looks down at the turbulent water below them.

“It looks kinda dangerous.”

“Yuna and I always went swimming together during the holidays. Here or somewhere else on the coast. The water was never that warm but we never cared. It was our favorite part of the trip. The only thing that could stop us was the tide.”

“Well, yeah. There’s barely even a beach anymore, I’m pretty sure it would be a terrible idea right now.”

Nico dramatically lets out another sigh.

“Well, what’s the point if the tide is high when everybody’s here?”

“We can't really do anything about that, though. Or do you want to explain to the Moon that it should change its schedule to fit yours?”

Nico punches his shoulder without any heat whatsoever before leaning toward him, stopping just a breath away to reply,

“I'm sure if you asked it, the Moon would do it for you.”

Martino is not quite sure what he means by that, but the words were whispered against his lips and when Nico closes the distance and kisses him again, he stops caring. Somebody bumps into them at some point, whether it is on purpose or not, they don't know but they ignore it until Martino feels his phone buzz in his pocket. With a groan, he puts just enough distance between them to check who is calling, only to groan again when he sees his mother's name on the screen.

“Sorry, I kinda have to pick up.”

“Oh, sure.”

Nico good-naturedly gives him some space and goes back to observing his surroundings while Martino tries to bury his annoyance at being interrupted and answers the call.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Marti, how are you?”

There's something in her tone, from just those few words, that makes a weight appear instantaneously in his stomach. Gone is the lightness from yesterday, her voice is sluggish and hesitant. Apparently, yesterday’s good mood was a fluke.

“I'm good. How are you?”

“Oh, you know...”

Martino takes a deep breath. He doesn't want to have to deal with it, not today, not with Niccolò next to him and as their day together is quickly and surely coming to a close. He should have just let the call go to voicemail and called her back when he was back in Rennes.

“Are you and Filippo enjoying your day? Where was it that you were going?”

Martino sneaks a glance at Nico, who is busy gleefully looking on as two black-headed gulls apparently hatch a plan to steal an inattentive kid’s ice cream, before turning away from him, as if somehow it will make the lie easier. It doesn’t. He just doesn’t have it in him to feel guilty about two people at the same time. He doesn’t enjoy lying to his mom. In fact, he hates it. Sure, after spending so long lying to everybody around him, finally confessing the truth to his friends had been liberating, but with his mom, he hasn't found the words to explain. Not yet.

“Yeah, we are. We're in Saint-Malo, on the coast. It's a really beautiful day here. What's the weather like at home?”

He hopes talking about the weather will lead to more small talk and they won't have to cover bigger or sensitive subjects, like whatever is weighing on her mind today.

“Oh, it's not great. It looks like there could be a storm later tonight. It's really muggy.”

Apparently, the weather was the wrong approach. He tries again.

“So, what time are you going to Teresa's?”

There's silence on the line, and Martino grips tightly at the stone wall as he suddenly realizes what is coming.

“I don’t know if I’m going.”

He looks down and kicks a pebble out of frustration, hoping it will be enough to keep it from showing in his voice. Next to him, he can feel Nico looking at him and keeps his eyes stubbornly trained on the ground.

“Why not, Mom? Why wouldn’t you go? It’s just dinner.”

“I'm tired, I don't want to be a bother.”

“She invited you, you're not going to be a bother.”

“It's all the way across town and her brother's family will be there. I don't know them.”

“She wouldn't have invited you if she didn't think you would get along.”

She doesn't answer and he knows whatever he says will not hold much weight against whatever her brain is telling her.

“I think you should go, mom. It sounds like fun,” he still tries.

“I don't know, honey. It's still early, we'll see.”

“Okay.”

“You should go back to your day, then. Have fun. Say hi to Filippo for me.”

“Sure. Bye, mom.” And because he does feel a little guilty about not being able to help her more, he adds, “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

As he pockets his phone, he lets out a long exhale, hoping it will rid him of the frustration and the tension that have built up in his chest during the very short call. Nico's hand comes to rest on his arm, which draws him back to reality. The simple contact and the sight of him standing by his side are enough to make him feel lighter already.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. It's just my mom, she...” He trails off, not sure he wants to bring it up now. But the concerned look on Nico's face convinces him to go on. “She's exhausting sometimes.”

Nico nods but doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at him.

“When she gets depressed or anxious, it's just impossible to know what she wants, she'll make plans and then change her mind at the last minute. Sometimes she ends up not doing anything for days. And there's nothing to do when she gets like that. It's just useless.”

He hesitates for a second before continuing but Nico is listening and letting him talk, and although they usually commiserate, he knows his friends believe he can be tough on his mom sometimes, and right now, there’s still a weight pressing down on his chest.

“I know she's stressed right now because of work and the divorce, but I couldn't get away from it, not even for five days.”

He rests his arms on the wall again and breathes in the sea air, charged with the scent of kelp, rock and salt. After a few seconds, he turns to Niccolò, who is staring out at the horizon in silence. Martino hopes he hasn’t overshared and made things awkward or ruined the mood too much. Of course, Nico wouldn't know what to say to that, so hoping to change the subject, he turns his attention back to the sight in front of them, where he recognizes Le Grand Bé.

“Hey, look, it’s an island again.”

That draws Nico's attention and he turns to Martino with a questioning look. Martino points at the island standing to their left.

“The tide's high, Chateaubriand’s alone again. Now, he can get some rest from all the people that were there before.”

Niccolò gives him a long look before he replies.

“Yeah, he must be glad to be rid of them. It must be nice to have a break.”

He sounds pretty flat when he says it and Martino searches his expression to figure out if he is just tired or if there's something more to it. Before he can, Niccolò takes out his phone.

“Hey, we should probably get going if we want to make the 6:28 train.”

“Oh, already?”

It is a tough call back to reality and he can't hide the disappointment in his voice, but as he checks the time on his phone, Martino can only admit that he's right. They have just enough time to walk back to the station. Nico gives him a small smile.

“I promised I'd be there for dinner.”

“No, you're right, we should go.”

 

They walk in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. They get there in time to buy tickets and make it to their train with some time to spare. The platform fills up with people also riding back to Rennes after having had their fill of the sea and the sun. They manage to snatch two seats, and Niccolò settles by the window. A few minutes after they're off, he shuffles a little closer to rest his head on Martino's shoulder. Looking down at him, with their bodies pressed together in the small space, Martino can feel a surge of happiness go through him. He rests in own head on Nico's hair and dozes on and off throughout the journey.

 

They're about ten minutes away from Rennes and although Martino doesn’t mind having Nico settled against him like that, they haven't talked about meeting again, about what's coming once he’s gone or once Nico goes back to Rome and it's making him feel antsy. So he leans forward to try to catch a glimpse of Nico’s face.

"Hey, Ni?"

Niccolò sits up and seems to shakes himself off from sleep or from whatever thoughts had been going through his head.

"Yeah?"

"Are you busy tomorrow? I'm leaving Tuesday morning, but we could do something if you want."

Niccolò seems to mull this over.

"I'm not sure yet. We're having lunch with Yuna’s mom and stepmom so that's gonna take a while, but maybe later..."

Martino lights up.

"You think you could get away? I'd really like to see you before I leave."

Nico nods and he is looking a little sad, which in turn makes Martino both sad as well but also comforted by the idea that Nico is going to miss him.

“Maybe text me when your lunch is done and you can leave?”

"Okay."

Far too soon to Martino's liking, the conductor announces they're approaching Rennes and they get off the train. Outside the station, he's not sure how to say goodbye and put an end to the day. Until then it hadn't felt like it would really ever end. So he leans forward to kiss Nico one last time. Nico returns the kiss, his hand lightly resting at the base of his neck. When he pulls back, however much he doesn’t want to let go, Martino cannot keep the grin off his face.

“I have to go,” Nico says regretfully.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah. Bye, Marti.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes without saying but there never was a medium B. Unless I've been lied to.  
> Chapters 7 and 8 are mostly written, so I'm hoping to post them as soon as possible.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Martino's last day in Rennes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is set in 2020, but it's still an Easter Monday chapter on an Easter Monday.

Back at the dorms, Martino finds Filippo in the middle of Skyping with Eleonora. After a quick wave in her direction, he heads to the common room to give them some privacy. It’s a long weekend and the start of the holidays, so there’s only one other student there, who is entirely engrossed in his phone. Sinking into the old, stiff sofa, Martino scrolls through the few pictures he took over the day, choosing a view of the city to post on Instagram. He stops for a moment at the two photos of him and Nico taken by the two girls on the ramparts. Just looking at the scene, at the sky and the sea which seem to be meeting in the background, their flushed faces and messy hair from a day in the sun and in the wind, their matching grins, he burrows deeper into the sofa as a warm feeling settles in his chest. Both photos look pretty similar, but he picks the one he likes best, the one where Niccolò’s smile is just a little wider and they stand just a fraction of an inch closer, which he sends to him with a quick text.

“Thank you, I had an amazing day.”

Opening his conversation with Sana and finding yet another message on the subject, he then reassures her that yes, he will find a French female figure to talk about for the radio and yes, he’s aware that they’ve already covered Joan of Arc and Marie Curie. Filippo has still not appeared, and he is starting to feel famished, so he heads to the kitchen to get a start on making dinner. He’s draining the pasta over a pile of abandoned dirty dishes when Filippo finally joins him.

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding.”

“Hey. How’s Ele?”

“Good, she’s really excited about Madrid this summer.”

Filippo comes to stand by his side, leaning against a fridge, and looks at him expectantly. Martino, biting back a smile, takes to stirring some sauce into the pasta with much more focus than the operation requires.

“So?” Filippo finally asks, impatience seeping even through the single syllable.

“So?” Martino replies, the perfect picture of innocence.

“Are you kidding me? Did you have a nice day?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Filippo repeats.

Martino nods.

“Are you seriously pulling that shit again? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

“Yes,” Martino concludes, carefully averting his eyes and making him squirm just a little longer by heading to one of the cabinets to grab two plates.

“You realize that if you don’t tell me anything, I’m just going to assume you found a dark corner to do filthy things to each other? All day.”

When Martino keeps going about his business, Filippo gasps.

“Did you? I’m so proud!”

Martino finally breaks and laughs, unable to keep up the act any longer.

“Come on.”

“So you _can_ say more than one word at a time.”

He looks at Martino for a moment, before raising his arms in defeat as he seems to realize that he’s not going to get any details out of him.

“Fine, I give up. Keep your secrets.”

The thing is, Martino wouldn’t mind telling him, and he most certainly will at some point, he wouldn’t mind screaming it at the entire world if he thought he could do it safely, just not tonight. The day is still not over, he can still feel the salt from the sea sticking to his skin and the shadow of Nico’s lips over his, and he just wants to keep it to himself. Just tonight.

“I’m assuming you’re busy tomorrow then?” Filippo continues.

“I don’t know yet. Nico’s having lunch with Yuna’s family, but he said we could do something after that.”

“Poor boy, that family lunch’s probably going to take him all day. So I guess you’ve got some free time. A girl from one of my classes is going to the Mont-Saint-Michel and she’s got two seats in her car if you want to go.”

Martino considers the idea. The Mont-Saint-Michel is one of the few places he’s actually heard of in the area and it does sound tempting to make the most of his last day instead of not doing much in Rennes while waiting for a text.

“Is it far from here?”

“I don’t know. An hour, maybe.”

Seeing that Martino is still considering it, he adds, “But don’t worry, she wants to leave earlyish tomorrow morning so we can get back sometime in the afternoon. You’ll be back in time to see him.”

“Okay, sure, why not?”

“Cool, I’ll tell her. I’ve been meaning to go there since I got here.”

The dorms are pretty empty that night, and not much is open on an Easter Sunday night, so they end up in the common room again, where the guy from Chicago is back to pick up his conversation with Filippo right where they left off. The engineering students, thankfully, are nowhere to be seen, so Martino contents himself with watching whatever he can find on television. Only when they get to bed and he closes his eyes, does it occur to him that Niccolò never replied to his text.

 

They meet up with Filippo’s classmate and her brother, Lou and Théo, at 9:30 the next morning. From everybody’s expression, it is clear that none of them is very excited about being up this early. On the back seat of the small car, Martino is soon sound asleep again, not that concerned by the conversation the other three take up in French. The car is not exactly new and not very fast, and there is some traffic on the road to the Mont-Saint-Michel as the day is gearing up to be as sunny as yesterday, so it is past 11 when they finally find a spot on the wide parking lot which stretches before the walkway leading to the Mont. They can see its silhouette in the distance, across from the vast expanse of sand, and there is a line of people heading in that direction, regularly overtaken by the shuttles that drive whoever is less able or willing to walk.

They make their way on foot, and Martino cannot help but remember following another, much shorter walkway to another, much smaller island only yesterday. This one is wide enough for vehicles to drive over it and the sea only covers it when the wind turns to storm. The island at the other end is a hill, covered in houses and shops with its massive abbey and its golden statue of Michael slaying the dragon sitting at the top. As nice as the surroundings are, with the sea in the background, the small, stone houses and winding streets, the whole place quickly feels stifling. There’s people everywhere, the noise seems to bounce off the walls, every other shop sells the same touristic stuff he’s been seeing everywhere, except for possibly even higher prices. It’s impossible to escape people, as everybody is filing in in the same direction, toward the top of the hill and the abbey, unlike in Saint-Malo where he and Nico had managed to find ways to escape the main flows of the crowd when they had started to feel overcrowded. Here, there’s nowhere to go. Lou and Théo soon go off on their own and they agree to text each other later when they want to head home.

Filippo and Martino make it to a terrace at the top, and take a moment to soak in the view, which, Martino will admit, may have been worth the trouble. While they’re admiring the bay around them and Filippo takes some photos, they overhear a tour guide addressing a group in Italian and manage to sneak behind them to listen for a moment. However, when the group heads off into the abbey, which requires a fee that neither of them wants to pay, they give up and start exploring around it instead. A few hours pass by pretty quickly, Filippo finally hears about the trip to Saint-Malo, gushes in all the right places and gives him a spontaneous congratulatory hug right in the path of a group of Japanese tourists. Around mid-afternoon, Lou texts to ask if they’re ready to go. They head back down, cross over back to the parking lot, find the car and finally make their way out of it and back on the road.

 

It’s almost 5 when they reach the dorms, so Martino figures lunch should be over by now, or at least close to over. Surely, even a French Easter Monday family lunch cannot be drawn out into almost dinnertime. So, while Filippo takes out his laptop and starts sorting through some photos he took over the weekend, Martino starts gathering up what little he brought along with him, which has still somehow managed to end up strewn around the room, and packing it up. It takes him very little time and he still needs most of it for the night and the next morning, so when he’s done, he just settles on his mattress and takes up a conversation with Eva while listening to Filippo ramble about light and composition. At 6, he checks his inbox to make sure he hasn’t missed a notification and decides to text Nico, in case he lost track of time.

“Went to the Mont-Saint-Michel with Fili, how was your day?”

Soon after, Andrea calls, and Martino makes himself scarce again, heading outside to avoid spending more time in the depressing common room. The sun is still high enough that he can head to the football field across the street and settle on the grass while Eva finishes reporting on the newest developments of her and Gio's will-they-won't-they-get-back-together dance. Everybody knows it's going to happen eventually and has been patiently waiting for them to get there at their own pace. After ten minutes of sitting, waiting and keeping an eye on his notifications, he gets antsy and goes for a walk. It’s almost 7 when he gets back to Filippo’s room where he finds him about to go make some food.

“I was starting to think you had sneaked off to meet Nico without telling me. So, what’s the plan?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t texted me yet.”

The expression of surprise on Filippo’s face does nothing to assuage the hint of a doubt that has started creeping at the back of his mind.

“Oh. Well, it’s still really early.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you try texting him?”

“Yeah, he hasn’t replied yet.”

It occurs to Martino in this moment that Nico never replied to his message from last night either, and the doubt grows a little bit bigger.

“He didn’t reply to a message I sent him yesterday either.”

“You know, there could be a million reasons for that. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves and let’s have dinner before we start worrying, okay?”

“Sure.”

Martino doesn’t mention that it is too late for that. They eat in almost silence in the still empty common room, each focused on their phones. With every passing minute, Martino feels himself deflating a little more. When they’re done eating, he can feel Filippo's eyes on him from across the table but looking up would mean accepting defeat and he's not ready yet. It’s only when he hears his name called that he finally gives in.

“We’re going to a pub tonight, with other exchange students. You want to come?”

Martino doesn’t want to say yes, because it’s still early enough that Nico may reach out. But he also doesn’t want to spend his last evening alone in a tiny dorm room. So he doesn’t answer.

“Just in case he’s busy or something, you can come with. We can be your back-up plan.”

“It’s still early,” Martino points out, mostly to try and convince himself.

“I know. It’s up to you. They’re the same people from Thursday, they’d be happy to see you again.”

“If he doesn’t text, I’ll come.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Filippo doesn’t comment any further and takes their plates back to the kitchen. Martino goes back to staring at his provocatively silent phone before following him. They kill some more time in the common room until it’s time to head out to the pub in the city center. Before they leave, Martino gives it a last try and texts Nico the name of the pub, telling him he’s welcome to join.

 

It’s 9:45, and as they sit around a table already covered in empty glasses, Martino should probably accept by now that he’s not going to see Niccolò tonight. The other students are friendly and fun, and the beer is good, but the situation doesn’t sit well with him and it’s definitely put a damper on his evening. He doesn’t know if he’s more disappointed that he won’t see Niccolò again until at least two months, if ever, or annoyed at himself for making the situation into a bigger deal than it clearly was. It’s probably a combination of both, but he doesn’t want to examine the feeling too closely.

Filippo, if not the others, has definitely noticed and keeps glancing at him every once in a while, even looking up with a hopeful expression when Martino had received a text earlier in the evening. It had been, predictably, his mom, who wanted to tell him she had enjoyed the dinner and to ask what time his plane landed without bothering him on his last night away. For an instant, he had been relieved that she had gone in the end and that she had had a good time but having to think about his flight landing in Rome brought back the feeling, whatever it was. He is checking his phone for what feels like the millionth time when a voice speaks directly into his ear, making him jump.

“Do you want to go?” Filippo asks, having made his way to his seat around the crowded table with surprising stealth.

“What?”

“You don’t look too happy, so we can go if you want.”

Martino considers the offer. He’s having a moderately good time, but he also feels like his mood is not going to get better as the evening progresses. The idea of making Fili leave his friends because of him just threatens to add guilt to the negative feelings already sitting in his gut.

“Maybe I’ll go back to your dorm, but you can stay, you don’t have to come with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can see these clowns another day. I’ll go with you. Or, hey, it’s still early, how do you feel about a little Rennes by night before you leave?”

 

They wander around for a while, with no real aim or purpose in mind and end up following the Vilaine river until they are out of the center and on a path running along small apartment buildings. They have been walking in silence, for which Martino is grateful, when Filippo finally speaks.

“You know, I’ve been told that if you fall into the Vilaine, the water will make you beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Do you think if I jumped in there, there’d be a chance for me?”

Martino huffs a laugh and affects a look of contemplation before answering.

“I’m not sure even a magic river could do that, Fili.”

Filippo pretends to push him into the river, only to be fought off. Now that the silence has been broken and as they stand by the river, looking into the dark waters, Martino finally voices an idea that has been swirling through his head since they left the pub.

“Do you think something could have happened?”

“Something?”

“Yeah, like… I don’t know, an accident. Or the meal didn’t go well and there was a fight. Something,” Martino concludes lamely, not willing to go into more details as to the possibilities that have crossed his mind.

Filippo thinks about it.

“I guess, maybe, but there’s no way to know. At least, if it did, he’s not alone, right? He’s got family to help.”

Martino nods, finding at least some comfort in that idea.

“So he didn’t text you anything?” Filippo asks.

“No.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not interested, you know. Maybe something did come up and he couldn’t text. Maybe you’ll hear from him later.”

Martino doesn’t answer. He’s thought about it, but the less optimistic part of his brain is telling him not to get his hopes up.

“And if nothing happened and he just ignored you, then he’s a dick and you deserve better anyway.”

As wise as the words sound, Martino can’t help but think that he doesn’t want to consider that Nico is in fact a dick when all he wanted was a text, if not the chance to spend a last evening together.

“Either way, it’ll be okay, Marti.”

“I know. I just feel kinda stupid,” he finally admits. “I barely know him, I shouldn’t care about it.”

“Hey now. Don’t feel stupid for how you feel, okay? And if anything, he’s stupid for messing up his chance with you.”

“I think you’re a little biased.”

“But I mean it,” Filippo insists, grabbing his shoulder as if to make sure Martino is listening to him. “You’re fucking amazing and any guy who’s lucky enough to get you to fall for him will be a lucky bastard, that’s just the truth. And you deserve somebody who will text you back, even if it’s to say he can’t make it. Plus, I only saw him once, but I’m pretty sure he couldn’t pick me out in a crowd, he only had eyes for you. I’m ready to believe he was into you. And from what you told me, he certainly acted like he was. If he wasn’t, then I don’t know why he would do all that, but it happens. I’m sorry it happened to you. I’ll kick his ass for you if I see him around, trust me.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to,” Martino replies, his throat tight, but not out of disappointment this time. The words of thanks don’t make it past his lips, but Filippo gives him a little nod as if he understood.

“Good, ‘cause I wasn’t really going to do it.”

“I know.”

Silence falls again and looking around them, Martino realizes that in the distance, the football stadium seems to be looming, its shadow even darker than the river running alongside them despite the lights lining the path. The apartment buildings have been replaced by a power plant and the hum of the electric lines is giving an eerie atmosphere to the scene.

“It’s a little creepy, isn’t it?” Martino asks, lowering his voice as if speaking any louder could awaken whatever spirit lives in the river and makes people beautiful, probably at the cost of at least their first born, if not their soul.

“Oh, thank God you think so too, let’s turn around, it’s freaking me out.”

 

They make their way back to the dorms and head to bed soon after that, neither of them really in the mood to do much. Once he’s slipped into his sleeping bag, Martino feels compelled to apologize for cutting short Filippo’s evening.

“Sorry I wasn’t very good company tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it. I just hope you’ll still have good memories of your trip, at least. Don’t let one stupid boy ruin things for you. Trust me, it’s never worth it.”

“No, I had a great time, thank you, Fili.”

Lying on his old mattress for the last time, Martino can’t help but open his conversation with Niccolò to reread it. It’s short and comprised almost exclusively of times or places to meet, barely anything representative of the time they spent together, their conversations, the laughter, the kisses and the immediate sense of intimacy. He realizes he doesn’t even have any way of knowing if his messages have been read. With a frustrated huff, he puts his phone down on the ground and turns his back on it.

 

Filippo is adamant on accompanying him to the train station the next morning.

“I’m going to head back and spend the day studying probably, so it’s my one chance to get out of there for a bit, don’t take that away from me,” he insists when Martino tries to convince him that he can make it on his own.

While they wait for the platform for Martino’s train to be called out, Filippo puts on his serious expression, the same one he was wearing last night, and grabs him by the shoulder one more time.

“Marti, listen. You’re gonna get home, and you’ll be there for your mom, you’ll talk to your friends, you’ll have some fun, go to some amazing parties and maybe a couple of shitty ones that’ll make for great anecdotes in a few years. You’re going to kick your exams’ ass and you’ll forget him. You’ll meet other boys and before you even realize it, Nico will just be a story you tell from that time you went to Rennes. Okay?”

Filippo wraps an arm around Martino’s shoulders and holds him tight.

“I promise, you’ll be fine. You’ll slay all your dragons,” he adds, with a smirk in his voice that says he’s pretty proud of himself for that analogy. It makes Martino feel extremely fond of him and he holds him just as tight, grateful again for having stumbled, half-drunk and half-sick, into the Gay Street and into Filippo eighteen months ago.

“And what are those dragons supposed to be?” He asks as they finally let go.

“I don’t know. Life? Boys who don’t text back? Disgusting craft beer? Whatever you want them to be, use your imagination.”

“Thank you. Really. For having me and for… you know, for everything.”

“It’s always my pleasure, you know that.”

“And when you get back, you’ll get to whine, too,” Martino promises.

“Oh, don’t worry, I intend to. Come on. Look, they’ve announced your platform. Your train’s gonna be there. Give Ele a kiss for me, okay?”

 

To kill time during the journey, Martino studies half-heartedly. It keeps his mind busy and focused on things he can understand. Problems he can fix. So he doesn’t think much of it when his phone buzzes as he's halfway to Paris and he picks it up absentmindedly. After all, it could be anyone. He doesn’t think much of it until he finds himself staring at his conversation with Niccolò again. This time, he finds something new at the very bottom, just a few words, “Sorry I couldn’t make it. Bon voyage.” Martino stares at the screen. He puts down the phone. He picks it up again as hope surges briefly in his chest. Nico reached out, is his first thought. Then, his heart sinks again. There’s no explanation, no mention of Rome, no hint of any chance of meeting again.

Moved by the sudden urge to put his phone out of his sight for the rest of the journey, Martino fishes his backpack from under his seat and opens the front pocket. Inside, a touch of color draws his eye, and he takes out the seashell from the beach in Saint-Malo. Holding it up to the window, he looks at the way the light plays on it, trying to tell himself that it doesn’t mean anything, and he should probably just throw it away. He cannot quite make himself do it, and in the end, he shoves it into his own pocket, where it is less likely to end up crushed. He kicks his backpack back under the seat and goes back to studying.

He studies until he reaches the station in Roissy Airport. He buries himself in his history notes to keep busy until his flight starts to board. He watches as France, then Switzerland, unfold under them until cities, fields and forests turn into the Alps, and just like that, he’s in Italy again. At Fiumicino, he boards a train and before he knows it, his mom is embracing him in the doorway like they haven’t seen each other in a month instead of just six days. But she looks happy to see him, she’s full of anecdotes about last night’s dinner, and as much as her sadness and exhaustion can be contagious sometimes, so is her enthusiasm. Martino is soon laughing with her, choosing the stories from his trip that she will like the best until his eyes start to sting from spending the day in trains and airports and he keeps having to stifle yawns as he talks. She sends him off to bed to rest before he has to go back to school. As he's about to disappear into his room, she pushes his hair away from his face, which she hasn’t done in a long time, even after his hair got long enough to constantly fall into his eyes.

“I’m glad you had a good time, but I’m also glad you’re home.”

“Me, too”, he replies as he gives her a kiss good night.

It brings a bright smile to her face, but Martino would be hard-pressed to tell if he actually means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, three days of sunshine in a row in Brittany is not impossible, but it's also not very realistic.  
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Mosaics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martino is home, and the holiday is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I keep changing the chapter count, but 12 really should be final. The story's not changing, I just keep getting carried away.

The next day, Martino goes back to school and everything is abruptly and relentlessly normal. It is both the best and the worst part of it. He goes to school, he jokes with the guys, he tries to follow his classes, and it’s all like the past few days never actually happened. At the same time, it’s home, it’s familiar places where Niccolò doesn’t fit anywhere, and it can only be easier to put it all behind him. He only wishes now he had managed to keep his mouth shut because as soon as he makes it to school, the guys are on him with a fresh wave of questions about Nico. Their interest, so comforting just a few days ago, is almost smothering now. When two long minutes of gushing on their part only draw monosyllabic answers from him, Elia and Gio exchange a look while Luca examines his expression with a frown. Whatever passes between his friends, it only takes a second.

“Dude, did we even tell you who showed up completely hammered at Peccio’s birthday? Chicco Rodi! I swear, that guy’s everywhere and he doesn’t even go to our school anymore,” Gio starts, blatantly changing the subject, for which Martino will owe him a lifelong debt of gratitude.

Of course, he knows Gio well enough to realize there’s no way he can get off that easily. Sure enough, as soon as they’re out after their last class of the day, Elia and Luca disappear, and Giovanni falls into step with him. To his credit, he doesn’t draw it out and almost immediately asks,

“Hey man, what happened with Niccolò?”

Martino shrugs, because he still has no idea and he’d rather not dig too deep into the subject. He’s not sure he’d like what he might find there.

“I guess I was wrong.”

“Wrong?” Gio repeats, sounding offended at the very idea. “Wrong about what?”

“I don’t know. About the fact that he liked me.”

Giovanni gives him a look that is utterly unconvinced.

“You mean the guy who took you to that town after knowing you for one day and made out with you on a rock? You don’t think he likes you?”

“He didn’t reply to any message I sent him after we got back. We were supposed to see each other on Monday night before I left, but then… nothing and I only got a text when I was on the train to the airport.”

“And what did it say?”

“Just ‘sorry I couldn’t come’ and to have a good trip. And nothing since.”

“Maybe… something came up and he really couldn’t come. Or his phone died. Did you try messaging him on Instagram or something?”

Martino opens his mouth to answer, but embarrassment quickly overtakes him so he closes it right away, still not fast enough for Giovanni to miss it.

“What?” When he still doesn't say anything, Gio elbows him to spur him on. “Come on, what?”

“I don’t know his last name. I can’t find him anywhere.”

And he had tried. Unable to fall asleep the night before, he had scrolled through profile after profile of Niccolòs on Instagram and Facebook, to no avail. Google searches about “Niccolò graphic design” had yielded tens of thousands of matches, but nothing of interest to him. His statement is followed by silence, and he barely dares look up for fear of finding Gio laughing at him. When he finally does, however, he is only met with a frown.

“You don’t… How can you not know his last name?”

“Well, believe it or not, it didn’t come up. How often do you talk about somebody’s last name?”

“But don’t you know what school he goes to or something?” Gio continues, ignoring what was mostly a rhetorical question anyway.

The conversation is not only not soothing Martino’s disappointment, but so far its only purpose seems to be to make him feel more embarrassed by the second. What could he expect from a guy who he apparently knows nothing about?

“No.”

“But I thought you said you talked about a lot of stuff?”

“I mean, I know he studies graphic design, but I don't know where. There’s more than one school in Rennes. And other than that, we didn't really talk about that stuff.”

“What, then?”

“I don’t know, trips we took, our families, music. Art.”

This time the corner of Giovanni’s lips is twitching, and he is clearly holding back a smile.

“You talked about art? You?”

“Fuck off. I can talk about art.”

“What did Filippo tell you?”

“I didn’t tell him about the text, that was when I had already left, but otherwise, either something came up or he was a dick.”

Giovanni seems to ponder the situation as they keep walking.

“Hm. Maybe you should try again. Maybe something really came up on Monday and he’s been busy dealing with that. If the dust’s settled now, it could be easier to talk to you.”

“You think so?”

“You’ve got nothing to lose, right?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Or, you know, you could call him. That’s a thing people still do,” Gio teases in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“If he doesn’t answer a text, he’s not going to pick up the phone, Gio.”

“Well, then, Filippo’s right and he’s a dick.”

They’ve reached the bus stop by now and while they wait, Martino thinks about Giovanni’s words. His best friend’s usually more attuned than him to how this kind of thing is supposed to work, and what he said seems to make sense. Nico had seemed to look forward to seeing him again, maybe even to meeting up once he got back to Rome, both at the concert and in Saint-Malo. But then again, he also knows well enough that some people are very good at feigning interest until they decide the effort is not worth their time. That thought leaves a bitter taste at the back of his mouth, but he wants nothing more than to give Nico the benefit of the doubt. He gets his phone out, drawing Giovanni’s attention.

“So you're going to try again?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

As the bus pulls up at their stop, Gio claps him on the shoulder approvingly, and they climb aboard. Once they’ve found two seats, Martino types and erases several sentences before settling on, “I’m back in Rome. I hope everything’s okay.”

Before he can convince himself to erase it again, he presses “send” and shoves his phone back into his pocket. He turns to Giovanni, who is happy enough to start catching him up on all the gossip he missed over the holiday. Right before his stop, Gio gives it one last try.

“So? Nothing?”

Martino checks his phone, even though he knows perfectly well he hasn't gotten any notification throughout the journey.

“Nope.”

“I’m sorry, Marti,” Gio replies, and even if his expression didn’t make it clear that he means it, Martino would know he does.

He shrugs, because at this point, what else can he do, and Giovanni is out of the bus with a wave and a “See you tomorrow!” that remind him that at least, his friends are here and willing to talk to him.

 

On Thursday night, he tackles as much homework as he can stomach to do and spends the afternoon with his nose in his books and his thoughts focused. He finally emerges when his mind starts to get too muddled for anything. So, he makes dinner and anxiously waits for his mother to come back from her meeting with the lawyers. When she crosses the door, he sits up on the couch where he had been using the AS Roma to cathartically crush the Stade Rennais over and over again, to see that she looks exhausted but wears a faint smile on her face. When she notices the table set and smells the food waiting in the oven, she draws him into a grateful hug. He indulges her for once. She tells him about the meeting over dinner, how it wasn't as bad as she feared, how the lawyers were stern and professional but also eager not to draw out the process any more than necessary. Even his father seemed more than willing to expedite the whole thing as much as possible. They apparently even managed to have their first actual conversation in over a year. A weight he didn’t even know he had been carrying lifts from Martino’s shoulders and the relief that seeps through the apartment feels almost palpable.

Once they’re done eating, Martino takes out the little paper envelope containing the pendant he had bought for her. He had found it, almost forgotten at the bottom of his backpack, at the beginning of math class and he slides it towards her plate without a word. It’s just a small silver knot of some sorts, he doesn’t even know if it represents anything, but it had caught his eye at the back of the stand. Still she looks at it like he's just handed her the biggest diamond in the world. That’s a look he probably shouldn’t even trust, as it was the same look she had given to the badly-painted salt dough bowl he had made for Mother’s Day when he was six. She goes to her bedroom to find a chain to put it on, and they settle on the couch in front of the television before she turns in, tired but looking relaxed for the first time in weeks. Once she’s disappeared into her room, Martino lets out a long exhale and moves to his bed, where he soon falls asleep in front of a baking show on Netflix.

 

All in all, the week passes by quickly and uneventfully. He can’t tell whether or not Giovanni talks to Elia and Luca because they act exactly as usual, they simply don’t bring up Nico again. Instead, they spend their Friday afternoon happily stuffing themselves on salted butter caramels while playing foosball at the Baretto. His mother has also definitely noticed that something is up with him. It is clear that she cannot put her finger on what exactly, but he’s been quieter and more withdrawn, and she notices. She doesn’t ask about it directly, but she tries to get him to go to the movies with her, she asks about his friends, about Filippo, and she never tires of hearing about Rennes. And on Sunday, finally, as they are having a late lunch and Martino is still nursing the remnants of a headache after a party organized by friends of Marta’s, she tries to tease it out of him.

“So you didn’t meet anybody nice in France?”

She’s fishing and not being subtle about it, but the question is easy enough to deflect.

“Yeah, a few people, mostly other exchange students. We went to a pub with a few of them. There was a girl from Korea and one from Ireland. The guys were from Germany, Brazil and Turkey, I think.”

“And no girls? Or… Nobody in particular?”

Martino focuses on pushing the leftover pieces of _crostata di ricotta_ around in his plate, the one she suggested they make together following his grandmother’s recipe and that was his favorite when he was a child.

“I told you, a girl from Korea and one from Ireland,” he deflects again with a smile plastered on his face, which only leads to her slapping his arm.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Oh, and there were those two girls who thought I worked for the Italian tourism board and were obsessed with Florence.”

She laughs and gets up to start clearing the dishes away.

“Fine, don’t tell me anything. Will I get an invitation to your wedding at least?”

The joke was never that funny from the start and now it’s starting to make him uneasy, but at least while she’s in the kitchen, he doesn’t have to pretend to smile.

“We’ll see,” he answers anyway, hoping it will bring an end to the discussion as it usually does.

He helps clear the rest of the dishes away and tidy up, but as soon as he’s done, he heads towards his room.

“Are you busy? I was thinking we could go for a walk, maybe. It’s so nice out.”

“I still have some research to do for the radio,” he answers, pointing at his door. It's not a lie, but the research is not that urgent. “But you should go.”

He closes the door behind him and drops down on his bed. His life would be so much simpler if she knew, if she could just stop expecting him to bring back a girl at some point. Now that the meeting was a success and she won’t be as anxious, it might be easier to talk to her, and she has been evidently trying to get him to open up all week. He tries to imagine himself going back out and telling her until he hears the front door close. With a feeling of relief only slightly tinted with disappointment, he opens his laptop and tries not to start stalking Niccolòs again.

 

The next week passes just as uneventfully, and Martino is starting to think he might manage to put the whole thing behind him. It’s definitely easier in the familiar setting of his school and his neighborhood. The consensus around him, when his text once again goes unanswered, seems to be that Niccolò was indeed an asshole as suspected, and that Martino is better off without him. He’s almost starting to believe it.

So, of course, that’s when the email arrives.

It’s a Sunday night concluding a pretty quiet weekend, and Martino is lying on his bed watching YouTube videos on his laptop when he gets the notification. It has no subject line and comes from an address he doesn’t recognize and yet, going against his common sense and every single rule he was ever taught about Internet safety, he opens it. He almost regrets it when the first thing he sees, at the end of the message, is a link. But his eyes move instinctively to the signature right under it that reads: “Nico”. He sits up from where he had been slouching on his bed, takes off his earphones, and his heart is back to beating in double time as if he hadn’t spent the last two weeks trying to convince himself that what had happened between them hadn’t meant that much. The link still perplexes him, so he reads the message first.

“Martino,

I’m sorry I couldn’t see you before you left. I wish we had had more time before you had to go, there were so many things I wanted to show you. Rennes isn't a big city but there’s a lot of hidden treasures you might not see at first glance. My favorite are the mosaics. You must have seen them. They’re on buildings and stores all around the center, and some of them are pretty hard to miss. There’s even a swimming pool that’s entirely decorated in the Art Deco style, with a mosaic arch above the front door. Did you know that these were made by an Italian family? Their name was Odorico. They worked on the opera in Paris before they moved to Rennes, and they must have liked it here, because they stayed. See, there must be something about the city that draws us in.

I know mosaics are not the most exciting art form, but there’s something I really love about them. The thing with mosaics is that, if you look too closely, they’re just shards of different materials, just a bunch of broken pieces. But when you take a step back and look at the whole picture, that’s when you really see them for what they are. It's not always good to focus too much on the little things.

Maybe you won't care about that, but what I was trying to say was that I wish I had had a chance to show them to you. Although it’s not quite the same, if you follow that link, you can still see some of them. I don’t know if you miss Rennes a little bit, but maybe it’ll remind you of your holiday.

I hope you had a safe trip home and that you’re having a good time in Rome. Maybe when I get back, we could hang out over the summer. I’d understand if you didn’t want to.

Good luck with your exams. À bientôt, j’espère.

Nico”

 

Martino reads over the message a second time and finds himself still unsure what it is really about. Not that he doesn't care about the city, but he wonders why Nico would write only to tell him about some mosaics, except maybe as a pretext to make contact. Before he can start thinking about it too much, he decides to click the link first and see what comes of it. It takes him to a two-minute-long unlisted video.

As it fades in to a shot of Rennes, a slow piano piece starts playing. The sound is not as polished and smooth as a professional recording, it sounds more like something recorded on a phone. That's another thought he pushes to the side for the moment. Shot after shot of the streets of the city follow, more or less long, some of them lingering on mosaic-covered floors, stores or buildings. There’s what Martino assumes to be the swimming pool Nico mentioned in his email, but most of them look like ordinary buildings, a bakery, a bookstore, a restaurant. As the music slows down to reach the end of the piece, the camera follows the river as it emerges from under the city center and then looks up at the museum of Fine Arts, with its rainbow stripes vibrating in the ever-present wind, and which Filippo had told him were some sort of art installation. With the last lingering notes, the image fades back to black.

Martino plays the video again. He’s paying more attention this time, looking around whichever building is the focus of the shot to try and identify if he’s been there, if he can recognize something. About twenty seconds in, he notices a short figure with shoulder-length dark hair who looks a lot like Yuna. She appears a few times throughout the video, never in focus, as if neither of them had realized she was in the shot. Martino wonders what part she played in helping Niccolò with this. Over a minute into the video, when the first wide shot of the swimming pool appears again, he presses pause and squints at a figure standing on the stairs leading to the front door and its colorful arch. He’s pretty sure it’s Niccolò. As he turns around towards the person holding the camera, the video switches to a close-up, and he's gone. The music coupled with the images of Rennes, not to mention catching a glimpse of Nico again, all of it give Martino a deep sense of melancholy that seems to seep right through to his bones. It’s a strange feeling and there’s a heaviness to it that makes him wonder if that’s how his mother feels when she has trouble making it out of bed. He goes back to the email and reads it again.

 

After that, he considers the message for a while. He glances towards the seashell sitting on his nightstand as if it could give him some kind of answer. It doesn't. Instead, he closes off his laptop and opens the radio group chat on his phone. He scrolls through the last messages but doesn't register anything they say. He opens the email back on his phone and considers it some more. He doesn’t know what to answer when he had been striving to forget about Niccolò and chalk it all up to a fruitless experience. Any sentence fragment he starts typing ends up being erased almost immediately, “Where were you?” “Why?” “It’s been two weeks”.

Then, with a huff, he opens his text conversation with Niccolò, staring for a second at the “Bon voyage” and at his own text at the bottom of the screen. Because he doesn’t know how to ask what he actually wants to know, if he mattered at all to Nico, or why, if he did want to see him again, he left him hanging for two weeks, he types,

“Is that you playing the piano?”

He doesn’t even have time to put down his phone before he gets a reply.

“Yes, did you like it?”

“I did. Did you write the music?”

Again, the answer arrives immediately.

“I wish but no. It’s just one of my favorites.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Martino is not sure how to continue the conversation, not having that much to say about the music and not sure how to say anything else. Another text arrives before he has to make a decision.

“I’m really sorry I couldn’t see you before you left.”

“That’s okay,” is all Martino can answer because it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Niccolò probably did have some kind of obligations, and it’s not his fault Martino got stupidly attached within the span of three days.

“I really wanted to see you again.”

Martino stares at the text, not sure how he’s supposed to convince himself it was all in his head when Niccolò can just send him emails that clearly indicate that he missed him, with videos that must have taken time to edit of himself playing the piano in the background or even simply text him things like that.

The problem with the email, the video and that reply is that all of Martino’s explanations for Nico’s attitude fall apart, and he’s back to not being sure why it would take two weeks for someone to reach out. And he wants to trust that there’s a reason. More than that, he wants to trust that Nico means it when he apologizes repeatedly for not coming and when he mentions twice wanting to see him. He takes a deep breath.

“Me, too.”

“So when I come back, we could do something?”

“Of course.”

The next message takes a little longer to come and Martino is left wondering if he should have been more encouraging or if it’s possible that he’s already blown it. Before he can try to find a way to fix whatever he may have to fix, a new text appears.

“Maybe there’s an island around somewhere where we could get stranded together.”

Some of the heaviness lifts from Martino’s chest and he feels a smile forming on his lips.

“We wouldn’t even need coconuts to keep us company,” he replies.

“Good, ‘cause I don’t think they grow in Italy.”

Somehow, the conversation keeps going from there. Martino distantly hears his mother wish him goodnight through the door at some point and he probably answers something, but his mind is focused on his phone. He has lost track of time and he’s finishing telling Nico about last week’s party when he realizes that he hasn’t received a reply in a while. It’s past midnight so he assumes Nico must have fallen asleep. He types a last message, “Did I put you to sleep with my stories?” before falling asleep himself soon after.

 

The next day, he finds another email from Nico apologizing for falling asleep and blaming it on exhaustion from a long week, which he goes on to describe in some detail. It’s much easier to type on a keyboard than on his phone, so Martino replies in kind, with more stories from school and the gossip he has been caught up on, even if it involves people Nico has never heard of. Soon, they’re emailing back and forth almost every day, and if it feels a little old-fashioned to Martino, who’s used to shorter but more immediate messages, he finds that he doesn’t mind that much. Nico’s emails sound a lot like him, and he attaches photos sometimes, some of the city, some of the projects he is working on, either for school or in his free time. One of the sketches he sends is the one he had been working on in the museum, and it’s still Martino’s favorite.

One Saturday afternoon, as he’s lying on the grass, waiting for the guys to arrive for a rematch after their last game was interrupted by a sudden shower, Niccolò texts him an anecdote about his semiotics class. Martino, on the spur of the moment and feeling too lazy to text back, calls him. Nico sounds surprised when he picks up but his tone soon turns to delighted to be able to talk directly and without having to strain their thumbs to answer quickly enough. As he gets into the details of a convoluted story involving a prank played on his very old and boring semiotics professor, Martino realizes how much he had missed hearing Nico’s voice and even more so, his laugh. He’s still in fits at the conclusion of the story when his friends finally arrive, effectively putting an end to the conversation. He almost regrets having to hang up, and when he finally does, the guys are more than happy to tease him about it. It took some convincing from Martino, but eventually, they agreed to deem Nico’s motives, although still unknown, as probably valid, and now they’re more curious than ever about everything that passes between them. To escape the jokes and the increasingly worse innuendos, Martino kicks the ball towards the makeshift goal and soon enough, they’re all running after him.

May settles in and as they keep emailing and calling each other whenever one of them feels like it, Martino tells himself that the end of June may not be that far after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "À bientôt, j'espère" means "I hope to see you soon".  
> The piano piece from Nico's video is "[Bannec](https://youtu.be/Q-4UrzybMf0)" by Didier Squiban.
> 
> If I sound like an old woman who doesn't understand how teenagers use technology, it's because I am and I don't. But also, Nico got used to the brick phone and having to make do with what he had, and I believe he would really like sending long-ass emails. (And I'm nostalgic, indulge me.)
> 
> Next chapter's going to be a little different, but it should provide some insight into Nico's side of the story.


	9. Swimming (an interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile in Rennes, Yuna tries to take things into her own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kinda of an interlude in the main story. It's set during chapter 8, more specifically on the Wednesday after Easter, Marti's first day back in school. It follows Yuna's point of view and is not necessary to understand the whole story (so feel free to ignore it). It's just meant to provide a little bit of insight into how Nico is feeling. Also, I really wanted to write Yuna and Nico hanging out.

After careful consideration, Yuna has decided that, as she only has one week to spend at home with her dad and her favorite cousin, there is no way she is going to spend it sitting alone on the couch. When she goes back to Strasbourg, she will have essays and case studies and finals to think about, but now should be a time for staying up late talking about the stupid things they used to do when they were kids and planning more stupid things to do now that they’re older.

It’s Wednesday, she’s halfway through her spring holidays, and the flat has been much too quiet for her taste for over two days now. This needs to stop. Sure, her dad told her to leave Nico alone, to let him deal with things in his own time. But she’s bored and of the firm conviction that locking yourself up in your room is not the solution to getting your heart broken by a boy. Plus, she misses him. On Sunday, he came back from a day trip to Saint-Malo with the boy from the fest-noz looking all sad and quiet. They had dinner with her dad, and no matter how hard they tried to get anything out of him, Nico kept stubbornly deflecting questions, when just the night before, he had looked so excited. He had gone to bed immediately after that. During lunch on Monday, he was just the same, politely answering any question that was put to him directly but otherwise not taking that much part in the conversation. Even when her stepmom had brought up an exhibit on Italian metaphysical art she was curating for the Musée d’Arts in Nantes, he had seemed more interested in playing with her kid stepbrothers. And he usually never misses an opportunity to ramble on about modern art. When she had cornered him in the kitchen between cheese and dessert, he had claimed to be tired. Nobody would have bought that excuse and she certainly didn’t.

Yuna doesn’t care that much about what exactly that guy did to bring Nico down like that, all that matters right now is that her cousin is sad in the next room and she can’t have that. Martino should be back in Italy by now, hopefully at a safe enough distance not to make things worse, and her dad is at work, so he doesn’t have to know. She drops the book she had been staring at and knocks at the guest room’s door.

 

She finds him pretty much exactly how she had expected, sitting on his bed, with his laptop open in front of him. The first thing she notices is the piano music coming from his speakers. Her dad’s played it enough for her to recognize it instantly.

“What are you doing? Why are you listening to Squiban? No wonder you’re sad, don’t listen to that, play something with some beats to it.”

It’s not how she was intending to breach the subject, but it has the benefit of getting his attention. He looks at her in confusion, and it’s already much better than the deflated expression he had been sporting up until now.

“I’m not sad.”

It’s so blatantly a lie that she is not even going to acknowledge it.

“So, what do you want to do today?” She asks instead, moving on with her plan of providing a distraction.

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. I don’t really feel like doing anything.”

“But I don’t want to have to study.”

“Nobody’s making you,” he replies, looking back down at his screen.

She wanders into the room, noticing the sketchbook on the desk, the clothes that have ended up on the floor and his suitcase which, somehow, even after eight months, still has not managed to make it into a cupboard. She picks up a book on art history and opens it to a random page.

“So you’re going to stay in here for the rest of the holidays instead of doing stuff with me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She puts the book back and sits cross-legged on the bed next to him.

“It’s what you’ve been doing.”

“That’s not true. We went to the forest on Saturday, and _you_ got us lost. On Monday, your mom’s family was here and yesterday, you were with Benoît. Today, I just don’t feel like doing anything.”

The omission of one particular day in his enumeration is so glaring that she can’t not mention it.

“And on Sunday?”

He scowls at her. Unfortunately for him, he may have a pretty good scowl, but she’s been immune to it for years.

“You know what I did on Sunday.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know why you’ve been sad since then.”

He has a fleeting look on his face like he’s going to deny it again, but he seems to think better of it and doesn’t say anything instead. She tries a different approach.

“Look, I don’t need the whole story, but…“

“But you kinda want the whole story?” He retorts, finally sounding a little more like himself.

“No.” She replies in the same tone. Sometimes talking to Nico really brings out the ten-year-old in her and she has to tamp down the urge to stick out her tongue. “Just if he did something shitty.”

“No, he didn’t do anything.”

This time, his tone isn’t quite as final, but rather seems to indicate that he would say more if prompted. And she’s happy to prompt him.

“But?”

Nico has put his laptop down on the bed and is fiddling with the cord as he puts off answering just a little longer.

“It’s just something he said,” he finally admits.

“Okay. What kind of thing?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I mean, clearly it does.”

“No, it doesn’t matter what it was, I just know it’s not going to work. For either of us.”

Yuna stares at him, expecting him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, she has to confess to being somewhat underwhelmed.

“Okay.”

“What?” He asks, apparently not satisfied with her answer either.

“That’s… Fine, you don’t have to tell me what he said if you don’t want to, but it must have been pretty bad if you’re just throwing in the towel.”

His only reaction to that is a frown.

“Not to defend him or anything, because I wasn’t there and maybe he did say something really shitty that was a deal-breaker like that creep who told Anaïs that colonialism hadn't been that bad, but don’t you think it’s a little abrupt? Sure, you haven’t know him that long, but you wouldn’t shut up about him when you got back from the museum, then you both ditched us for an entire night, then you wouldn’t shut up about him again on Saturday, you were already talking about seeing him again in Rome, and suddenly it won’t work? Isn’t there a chance you might have been a bit… I don’t know, hasty?”

“What if I know it won’t work?”

“Maybe you’re right. Did you at least tell him whatever he said bothered you?”

Nico is silent for a bit before he replies, looking away.

“No.”

“And you haven’t heard from him at all since Sunday?”

“He texted.”

Yuna sits up, her interest piqued by the fact that he had been keeping that piece of information to himself.

“Really? When?”

“On Monday.”

“And did you reply?”

His “yes” comes after a beat too long, which tells her that his answer might not have been all that enthusiastic. She looks at him, not sure what to make of the whole thing. Her only certainty is that she doesn’t know enough to judge, but even Nico is starting to look a little unsure as well. Before she can find a way to get a better idea of the situation, he shakes his head to himself, as if he’d been deliberating and had finally made a decision.

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t want to do that to him.”

“Do what?” She asks, before adding, when he doesn’t answer, “Date him? Or even just meet up again and see where it goes?”

He just shrugs, which doesn’t do much to answer her question. Something at the back of Yuna’s throat is dying to come out and point out everything wrong with that reasoning, but she tries to swallow it. Objectively, she knows he sometimes convinces himself of things that aren’t true and that his negative thoughts can get too loud to filter. She may not exactly be known for her patience or tactfulness, but she does her best to put it as nicely as she can.

“Again, I don’t know what happened and I don’t know him, so I’m not trying to defend him, but didn’t you say one reason you broke up with Maddi was because she kept trying to make decisions for you? Isn’t that a little bit what you’re doing now?”

“No, that’s different.”

“Really?”

“It is”, he insists.

She raises her hands up in surrender.

“Okay, jeez. If you say so. In any case, it’s up to you and clearly, you know better than me what happened. All I’m saying is, maybe think about it before you give up completely if you really liked him. That's all.”

The conversation is not going the way she was hoping for. Instead of clearing things up and distracting him, it is starting to feel like they’re just digging themselves into a hole. Nico looks deep in thought for a moment and she waits until he sorts through whatever is going through his mind. The next sentence out of his mouth, however, is not what she was expecting.

“I should have just stayed in Rome.”

Taken by surprise, Yuna frowns. As far as she’s aware, this is a new complaint coming from him. She had been under the impression that he had been happy enough to be in Rennes.

“What does that have to do with anything? You could just as well have met Martino in Rome. Or it could have been anybody else.”

“No, it’s not just that. My parents didn’t want me to go and I’m in your dad’s way here. And school’s just…”

“What’s wrong with school?”

“Nothing. Just, maybe it was a bad idea.”

“Hang on. Your parents need to understand that you’re 20 and that they’ll have to let you do your own thing at some point. I think it's really great that you did it even if they're not happy about it. And you’re not in my dad’s way, are you kidding? He’s got somebody new he can play his millions of CDs to and who cares about what he has to say about the influence of experimental jazz or something on modern Celtic music and the differences between all the categories of pipe bands. Plus, you’re keeping him busy, so he forgets to worry about me. You’re doing us both a favor, really.”

That finally draws a small smile from him. It is not quite convinced, but it is a start. She’s about to keep going when his phone buzzes. He picks it up mechanically. Except after glancing at it, he doesn’t put it back down and keeps staring at his screen for longer than should be necessary unless he’s just been sent a full-on novella. Yuna makes an educated guess.

“Is that him?”

She inches closer, trying to get at least a peek at the screen to confirm her suspicion, but he pulls the phone closer to himself.

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s got either very good or very bad timing. What does it say? Come on. Please.”

“He asks if everything’s okay.”

As much as Yuna would love to revile Martino for whatever he may have said that could range from slightly insensitive to unforgivably offensive, it is pretty hard to find anything negative to say to that.

“That’s nice,” she begrudgingly admits.

“It is.”

He keeps looking at his phone like he suddenly doesn’t remember how to use it. Ordinarily, she would make fun of him for it, but she reminds herself that he is actually struggling with whatever happened and that this is one of those instances where keeping her mouth shut would probably be her best move. Luckily, she finally has an idea to change the subject, so it doesn’t take too much effort.

“Hey, you know what we could do? We could go swimming.”

That was always their thing, swimming. Her dad would drive them to the coast whenever Nico came for the holidays, and no matter how cold the water got, they would yell and shiver and jump up and down to try and warm themselves up, never giving up until they were fully immersed into the water, even for just a minute or two. They’d dare each other to stay for as long as they could and as soon as one bolted back to the beach, the other would follow. Her dad would mock or congratulate the effort depending on how long they had managed and how cold the water was and buy a round of hot chocolates. There is also a peace to being in the water, she finds, with nothing but herself to keep her from drowning. It gives her a sense of peace and clarity that she doesn't get from anything else. Maybe today it can help Nico stay afloat, too.

The suggestion seems to manage to draw his attention away from his phone and he finally looks up at her. She crosses her fingers discreetly under her thigh.

“I read somewhere that exercising’s good for your mental health, you know?” She adds, trying to adopt a serious and professional tone that he won’t be able to argue with.

He doesn’t argue, but it does earn her a probably well-deserved eye roll.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I think there’ve been studies and everything. It’s got something to do with… adrenaline?”

That draws another smile from him, a little brighter than the last one, so she must be on the right track.

“Endorphins, but nice try.”

“Come on, I don’t want to go by myself. And I can finally show you the pool I was telling you about, I’m sure you’ll love it. Come on, we’ll do twenty laps.”

He looks back down at his phone.

“Ten laps? That text will be here when we get back.”

He’s still mulling it over.

“And then we’ll make popcorn and watch some of those stupid superhero movies you like.”

“Really? You’ll willingly watch those?”

“If I’m the one to make the popcorn and I’m allowed to make fun of them, sure.”

“Okay.”

It is not quite the enthusiastic response she was hoping for, but Yuna will take it as another step in the right direction.

 

It’s not a very long walk to the pool and she manages to keep him distracted for most of it. As they reach their destination, she approaches the entrance, looking for her wallet which has disappeared at the bottom of her bag, when she realizes that he is no longer at her side.

“Nico?”

She turns around and finds him on the pavement, a few steps behind her, staring up at something with a hand raised to shield his eyes from the sunlight. She goes back to join him and looks up as well.

“What did you see?”

He points to the mosaic arch above the door.

“You know the guys who did those were Italian?”

“Well, yeah, dad keeps reminding me.”

He’s still looking at them and Yuna thinks there’s something like intent back in his eyes for the first time in three days.

“Hey, you said you follow Filippo on Instagram, right?” He asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

She looks back and forth between him and the front of the pool a few times, trying to figure out what link he could possibly have made between Italian mosaics and, presumably, Martino.

“I do. Does he also have a thing for mosaics?”

“I don’t know. Do you think you could help me with something?”

Apparently, they’re not going swimming anymore, but if there is something Nico wants to do with her that is not studying, of course she’s in.

“Sure. What’s the plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we will be back to our regularly scheduled Martino POV. However, as a heads-up, I have a lot on my plate right now, so it might take a little while to be posted. But it is definitely coming.


	10. The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martino is having one of those weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to check the tags.  
> And as a content warning, be aware that this chapter deals with a BPD episode, think episode 9 except nobody ends up lost and alone, I promise.

As far as he can remember, Martino has never believed in any form of higher power. That being said, he has begun to entertain the idea that the Universe may have it out for him, based on how things have been going for the past week or so. Or, more specifically, for the people around him.

May has simply flown by, and even though the exams and the end of high school are coming closer every day, he should at least be enjoying the warm weather with his friends while he still can. Instead, after consecutive weeks of peaceful life at home, his mom is overworked, and he's pretty sure she hasn't been eating enough. Although she’s been holding up so far, he can’t help but worry. Luca and Silvia are fighting, and he's not sure even they know why. Giovanni's dad has decided he wasn't satisfied with his son's grades and has cracked down again. Now, they barely see him outside of class anymore, he is constantly stressed and can’t even enjoy his newly rekindled relationship with Eva. Elia got his heart broken for the first time when, after four months, Marta decided to go back to her ex. He may be trying to hide it, but he is taking it hard. To top it all, Martino has caught what feels like the worst cold of his life, possibly of all time.

After spending the weekend in bed, fighting off a headache and sniffling miserably, he makes his way to class despite his entire body begging for sleep because he can’t afford not to so close to the end of the year. So, when he's not studying or with the guys, he is sending comforting message after comforting message or trying to convince his mother to stop for a second and watch some TV with him. The rest of the time, he feels too exhausted to do anything.

On Tuesday night, already half falling asleep, he wonders if he ever replied to Nico's last email, from before the cold descended on him on Friday night. No matter how deep he digs into his memory, he draws a blank. He wonders vaguely if maybe it would help to tell him about everything, about Gio being a bundle of nerves, about Luca making detours through the hallways to avoid meeting Silvia and about Elia finally dropping the tough act and letting himself cry quietly after just the right amount of beers. But his laptop is all the way on his desk and he can't summon the energy to grab it. He manages to pick up his phone next to him and type a short text, “Sorry I haven’t replied yet. It’s been a shitty week. I miss you,” before he drops the phone back on the bed, missing his face by a fraction of an inch, and rolls over onto his side. He can always send an actual reply tomorrow.

But the next day, Gio has had yet another fight with his dad, his shoulders are slumped and he has bags under his eyes. Under guise of working on a project together, Martino ends up spending the night at his place to try and defuse the tension a little bit. With that, the string of bad luck seems to finally start unravelling. Somehow the plan works and Gio’s dad is polite enough throughout dinner, which leads him to finally have a civilized conversation with his son. Apologies are made, his dad seems to understand that the rules are not helping and agrees to relax them just a little bit. Gio’s brother heaves a deep sigh of relief at the news, which tells Martino all he needs to know about the atmosphere at the flat for the past few days.

 

When they make it to school on Thursday, they find Luca and Silvia happily making out in the courtyard. The reconciliation is as much a mystery as the separation was, but at least Luca’s himself again and much too happy to relate what happened in details none of them need or want to know. Elia joins them with plans for a party on Friday night, having seemingly gotten out of his funk and decided to slowly start proceeding towards acceptance. All Martino wants now that his friends’ problems are starting to fix themselves, is for his mom to come home at a reasonable hour, and then to sleep the whole thing off for an entire day, maybe two. However, his plans get foiled once again as, when he exits the school, before he has even made it all the way past the gate, he hears a familiar voice behind him.

“Marti!”

It takes him a second to fully process the voice, because as much as he is familiar with it, either when it tried to speak above Breton music in a crowded room, whispered in his ear on the ramparts of Saint-Malo or complained about the stupidity of his infographics teacher over the phone, not only has his brain been working at half speed lately but he doesn’t understand how Nico’s voice could be here, in Rome. He turns around just in time to practically collide with the owner of the voice, who is indeed here in Rome and wastes no time in wrapping his arms around him.

“I’m so glad I didn’t miss you!”

Martino has still not quite caught up with the idea of hugging him back before Nico steps away. Glancing around him, Martino meets curious looks from a couple of guys from his class who lose interest in them just as quickly. He doesn’t really have the chance to wonder more about hugging Nico right outside his school because there is a more pressing question to solve.

“Hey, I didn’t know you were back in Rome.”

It’s not the most enthusiastic welcome, but he’s still processing the apparition of Nico and trying to figure out how he feels about them standing so close to his school. He gestures towards the end of the street, hoping they can make it to the corner and he can finally stop holding his breath and appreciate that Nico, who he hasn’t seen in almost a month and a half, is actually here. They make their way in that direction.

“I didn’t tell you, I wanted to surprise you. You sound sick, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I caught a cold last weekend.”

“Oh no, that sucks.”

“But when did you decide to come back? Aren’t you missing classes?” Martino insists, still somewhat confused.

“No, because it’s Ascension Day, and it’s a holiday. Tomorrow, I only have one class and it’s semiotics, so who cares? And Francesco left yesterday to go to a conference until Saturday, Yuna’s in Paris with Benoît, basically there’s nobody in Rennes. And you said you had a shitty week and you missed me, so…”

He opens his arms as if to say “here I am”. Now that they’re out of sight of the school gates, Martino’s really starting to let himself believe that he is, in fact, here. He’s not quite as excited as Nico seems to be, bouncing on his feet and full of nervous energy, but the happiness is flowing through his body and he beams.

“So, you decided to show up unannounced?” He teases. The joke doesn’t land, however, because the smile slips off Nico's face, and with a pang of worry, Martino scrambles to take it back. “No, I’m kidding! I’m happy to see you. And for a surprise, that was a surprise.”

“But a good one?” Nico asks cautiously.

“Yes, of course. I really did miss you.”

That seems to do the trick and the smile is back on Nico’s face. “Okay. So, what do you want to do?”

It’s a simple enough question, but one Martino doesn't know how to answer. His plan had been to go home, nap, maybe get some homework done, and then go back to sleep. His headache is also threatening to return, he can feel it lurking at the top of his skull, and he was really hoping to find some painkillers before it made an actual comeback.

“Honestly, I’m not sure, I’m really tired. Do you want to go get a coffee or something?”

But Nico shakes his head.

“No, come on, it’s still early, we’ve got all afternoon, let’s go somewhere, just the two of us. Actually, you know what we could do that would do you some good? Go to the beach. My grandma always said that the sea air could cure anything. But a real beach, this time, not like in Saint-Malo. We could go to Ostia. Or Santa Marinella, I always liked it better.”

Martino’s about to protest that he really doesn’t feel like going that far, when Nico grabs his arm, as if struck by inspiration.

“I’ve got a better idea. Where’s that place where you friend has a cabin?”

The protest dies down in Martino’s throat before he can utter it.

“Bracciano?” He replies hesitantly.

“Yes. Let’s go there! It’s not technically a beach, but there’s a lake, right? Or Pescara, I haven’t been in ages.” He steps closer and lowers his voice before he continues. “And then maybe, I can kiss you by the sea again, and it would be just the two of us.”

The escalation from Ostia to Pescara leaves Martino speechless for a moment. He doesn't want to take the suggestion seriously, but Nico looks like he means it, and as he looks into his eyes, uneasiness settles in his chest. He cannot put his finger on it, but it occurs to him in that instant that something is off with Nico. Even apart from the fact that he apparently decided to fly back to Rome for four days on a whim, because maybe his family can afford it and maybe it’s a thing people do sometimes, it also has to do with the feverish look in his eyes, the urgency in his voice, the nervous energy he had interpreted as excitement, all of which start to feel unusual. Granted they haven’t spent that much time together in person, but he remembers how Nico had looked back in France, and this isn’t quite it. He can feel the first throbs of a headache behind his eyes.

“So, what do you think?” Nico continues when he doesn’t answer. “You and me and the sea?”

Now, the offer is tempting, it’s so very tempting, and if Martino wasn’t exhausted just trying to figure out if he’s reading too much into things, he would probably say yes. But the feeling in his gut he can’t quite explain makes him stick to a no.

“Ni, it sounds really fun, but… I don’t really want to go all the way there. And I have a test tomorrow, I can't miss it. Maybe you could show me your house, instead? We can go on Saturday, if you want.” He suggests, hoping that maybe Nico’s parents will be home and by their reaction, he can figure out if his instinct was right.

“My house? No, that’s boring, we can do that later. But if you don’t want to go too far, we could go to a museum. No modern art, I know you don’t like that, but there’s always the Borghese Gallery.”

He’s interrupted before he can find another suggestion as the itch that had been growing in Martino’s chest turns into a coughing fit. His face falls again while he looks as Martino tries to catch his breath.

“Oh, you really don’t sound good. I guess the beach wasn’t such a good idea.”

With a barely repressed sigh of relief, Martino nods. “I’m sorry, but we can go another time. When I don’t feel like I’m dying, I promise.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I guess we can go to my place. I’ll make you some tea and you can tell me about your shitty week.”

“That sounds great.”

The knot that had been tightening in Martino’s stomach finally loosens some as Niccolò turns around towards the bus stop and he falls into step behind him.

 

Over the journey, Martino tries to pry a little bit. He learns that Nico took an early train to Nantes and flew directly into Rome. Although he doesn’t say it in so many words, it seems that he came straight from the airport to the school. He is reluctant to talk about how he got there, so Martino doesn’t insist. More general questions do not get much more detailed answers so eventually, he lets him be. As the bus threads through the Roman traffic, Nico keeps quiet. It starts to feel more and more like Martino’s sitting next to a different person from the voluble, enthusiastic Nico that met him outside of school. He loses the glaze over his eyes, but with it, some of the light goes as well. The knot in Martino’s stomach starts tightening again as he keeps stealing glances at him. The bus takes them North, towards the Vatican and the wealthier neighborhoods.

“We’re here.”

These are the first words Nico has uttered in what felt like an inordinately long time. They walk for a few more minutes before stopping outside a building. Martino cannot help but look up at it. It’s much nicer than any building he could find around his neighborhood. Niccolò’s looking at the door but not making any move to open it. He’s fiddling with one of the buttons on his jacket and whatever he is considering is not making him any happier.

“I don’t know…”

He glances towards Martino who is looking at him expectantly. The idea that Nico may be afraid of his parents learning about him takes root in Martino’s mind. It would probably explain his change of attitude. If this is what is troubling him, the last thing he wants is to put Nico in a difficult situation with his family. Niccolò takes a deep breath and what he says seems to confirm his doubts.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” Martino nods, glancing around him, ready to explain that he understands when Nico continues. “My parents aren’t going to be happy to see that I’m here. And if they see you, it’s going to make things worse.”

The words aren’t what Martino was expecting and before he can fully process them, Niccolò adds, “My dad will probably be home in an hour or two, so maybe you should go. Otherwise… he’s going to get the wrong idea. He’ll think it’s your fault and it’s not. It’s my fault. I think you should go,” he repeats, more firmly this time.

Martino frowns, confused again.

“Wait… Your parents don’t know that you came home?”

Nico shakes his head, averting his eyes in favor of looking at his shoes.

“But…”

Not sure how to begin asking the many questions that spring to his mind, all Martino can do is helplessly raise his arms, gesturing at the building and themselves.

“Marti, believe me, they’re not going to be happy and they’ll have questions and… I really think you shouldn’t be here for that. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

As he looks back into Nico’s eyes, obviously sincere and pleading now, Martino is taken aback to discover that he’s tearing up. The knot in his stomach seems to have ridden up and lodged itself in his throat at the thought that he may be a part of whatever is leaving Nico so distraught. He’s torn between doing as he says if it makes things easier and not leaving him alone when something is so clearly wrong.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind if they get angry…”

“No, that’s not fair on you. I shouldn’t have showed up without warning. It was stupid.”

“No, I mean, it wasn’t the best day for it, but it’s nice to see you. And I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you, too,” he adds, without much conviction. Nico is still shaking his head and not quite looking at him, and Martino gets the feeling that there’s nothing he can say that would make him feel better. “Fine. But you’ll be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. It’ll be fine.”

The assurance is not exactly convincing but Martino doesn’t want to push. It never helped with his mom. He has a feeling it wouldn’t help now either.

“Okay. Can I call you later? Or text?”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I’d like to know how you’re doing. Will you text me after your parents get home at least?” Niccolò seems hesitant at first, but eventually nods. “Thank you. I’m gonna go, then.”

“I’m sorry, Marti,” Nico speaks the words so low that he’s not quite sure he’s heard them right at first.

“What for?” He asks, puzzled.

But Nico doesn’t answer. He turns to unlock the door and make his way inside. Martino watches him disappear into the elevator and remains frozen outside the building, staring into space, trying to form a coherent thought for several minutes. In the end, he shakes himself off and retraces their steps back to the bus stop, playing music loud enough to drown out the questions whirling through his brain.

 

The flat is quiet, his mom is not home yet and probably won’t be for hours, as has become the norm lately. Martino heads straight to his room, drops his backpack on the floor, finds just enough energy to toe off his shoes before dropping down on the bed. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and stares at the screen as if it could make Nico text him sooner. When it doesn’t work, he puts the phone down and takes to contemplating his ceiling.

His thoughts keep going round in circles between Nico flying back to Rome and heading directly to his school, apparently not even telling his parents, excited and bright-eyed, ready to take him to Pescara, and Nico outside his building, asking him to leave, suddenly sagging under an invisible weight that brought tears to his eyes. If he was tired before, just replaying the scenes is leaving him exhausted and frustrated, and all he can do is pick up a pillow and throw it at his chest of drawers. Lying down is not the best-suited position for it, so the pillow merely flops down to the ground and it doesn’t feel nearly as satisfactory as it should.

He picks up his phone and stares at WhatsApp, desperate to talk to somebody to untangle the mess in his head. Out of habit, he opens the Contrabbandieri group chat, but it seems too complicated to explain in writing. He doesn’t want to threaten the newfound and still fragile peace in the Garau household, so Gio is out of the question. Elia, as he knows, tutors fourth years for extra money on Thursdays, and Luca is probably busy reuniting with Silvia. His thumb hovers over Eva’s name but he doesn’t know how much Gio may have told her, if anything, about Nico. All he can say is that they haven’t mentioned him in her presence and that he doesn’t feel like explaining. There’s only one other person who's actually met him, albeit briefly. He calls Filippo.

“I know, Italy sucks without me and you want to come back and live it up here instead.”

If Martino wasn’t sure how to get started, such a greeting is not going to help him segue into it, but he does feel a rush of affection for how reliably self-centered Filippo can be when nobody around him is having a crisis. It doesn’t last however as, when he doesn’t receive any answer, Filippo’s tone grows serious.

“Marti, are you there? Everything okay?”

“Hey, Fili. How are you?”

“Darling, not that I’m not happy to talk to you but I have to get on a train in 15 minutes, and I have a feeling you’re not calling just to chat. What’s wrong?”

“Nico’s here.”

“Nico? Your Nico? Nico who doesn’t text back but sends weird emails?”

“Who do you think I’m talking about?”

“Easy, I was just checking. What do you mean he’s here?”

“He’s in Rome,” Martino explains.

“Oh, did he get back for the long weekend? Lucky bastard. I have two classes that I can’t skip tomorrow.”

Martino bites back the frustration and tries to put the situation in the clearest words he can find, trying to track back the right connections from what Nico had told him, his own text from Tuesday night, his uncle being gone and the fact that his parents don’t even seem to know he’s here. Filippo doesn’t interrupt, even when he cuts himself off in the middle of a sentence to start again. When he’s finally done, there’s silence on the line at first.

“Okay, that’s a bit strange,” Filippo comments.

“There’s something going on. I can’t explain it, but there was something wrong. He looked… I don’t know, he didn’t look like before. And he was super excited, but then he got really closed off and almost sad. Fili, it was really weird.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Marti. Maybe he freaked out if he was afraid his parents were going to get pissed.”

“That’s what I thought, but I don’t know. Why would he not tell his parents he was coming home? And why would that make him sad?”

“Do you want me to ask Yuna?”

It takes Martino a few seconds to place the name and make the connection.

“Yuna? How?”

“I follow her on Instagram. We’ve been talking a bit.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since you two ditched us at that concert. Oh, and I also ran into her and Benoît at a party the weekend after you left.”

This is all news Martino didn’t need to have to process as well.

“You didn’t tell me that.” If he sounds a bit reproachful, Filippo will probably not hold it against him.

“I don’t tell you everything. So, do you want me to ask her?”

Martino starts contemplating his ceiling again as he ponders the question. It’s tempting to potentially have an answer, but he doesn’t want to go behind Nico’s back. He wants a chance to ask him directly.

“I don’t think so, no. He said he’d text me after his parents got home. And maybe I can talk to him again, tomorrow or this weekend.”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Filippo replies in his most comforting tone.

“I hope so.” There’s silence on the line for a second, and something occurs to him. “Wait. Is that how he got my email address? Did you give it to Yuna?”

“That depends, how pissed would you be if I had?”

“No, I’m not pissed, but why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, she wasn’t 100% sure he was going to go through with it, so… Just in case, I thought maybe it was better if you didn’t know. Either you got a surprise or you didn’t have to wait for something that never came. And by the way, I asked why she wanted it. I don’t just go around handing out your email left and right, don’t worry”, Filippo assures him.

“I can’t believe you knew. And I can’t believe you kept it a secret.”

“You can’t imagine how painful it was.” Someone calls out Filippo’s name in the background. “Marti, I’m so sorry but I have to go. Just talk to him, okay? One thing you know is he wanted to see you, so that’s something. Don’t overthink it too much, and you let me know how it goes.”

“Okay. Sorry for bothering you.”

“Ah, you never bother me. Call me later if you want.”

“Thanks, Fili.”

 

On his way back from the kitchen with a cup of tea to soothe his aching throat, Martino stops by the bathroom to pick up some painkillers before settling himself on his bed with his homework. What he needs is a distraction. He half-asses anything that doesn’t require too much brain power while striving not to check his messages. Meeting Nico has certainly made his relationship with his phone much more complicated than it used to be. He is nodding off over his French translation, trying to remember irregular plurals, when his phone buzzes on his bedside table. Startled by the noise, he sends his textbook flying to the floor. Leaving it to its demise, he picks up the phone and rushes to unlock it when he sees Nico’s name on the screen. He opens the text.

“I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to scare you,” it reads.

It’s not what Martino wanted to know, but it’s contact, at least. He texts back.

“You didn’t. How did it go with your parents? Everything okay?”

In the time that it takes him to receive an answer, he pictures Nico writing and deleting sentences until he finds the right one. But maybe Nico is simply busy and he’s projecting.

“They weren’t very happy.”

Texting suddenly appears as the slowest and most frustrating form of communication ever invented. He considers calling but stops himself before he does. He may not know what exactly Niccolò is going through, but one thought keeps popping into his mind, that Nico’s attitude outside his building reminded him of his mom on her lowest days. And one thing he knows is that being forced into social situations when she isn’t feeling well only make things worse. “Can I call you?” He texts instead.

Several more endless minutes pass while Martino summons all his patience and glares at his French textbook like the whole situation is somehow its fault. It may actually be. Would he have still gone to Rennes to see Filippo if he hadn’t taken French? Probably. Would he have met Nico? At this point, he abandons this train of thought and picks up the book. His phone buzzes.

“Maybe not tonight.”

Disappointment floods through him like he’s just swallowed a bucket of lead. He understands, in theory, that Nico might not be up to talking, but the message does not quite get through to his heart.

“Sure.  Maybe tomorrow, then?”

The answer comes more quickly this time, and he will definitely count it as some kind of victory over French or the Universe or something.

“I'm sorry, I’m just not up to much tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

It’s something at least.

 

Fridays never pass quite as quickly as Martino would like them to, but this one seems to particularly drag on. He’s still trying not to check his phone constantly and not quite managing it. He spent the bus ride to school wondering what to tell his friends before deciding not to mention anything, at least for now. At least until he can talk to Nico again. By 11, he can’t take it anymore and tells himself that asking for news isn’t pushing. So he sends a text.

“How are you? Could I come see you?”

He tries not to see it as an act of revenge from the Universe when an answer comes while he is sitting in French class, much too close to the teacher for him to be able to take out his phone discreetly. As soon as the bell rings, however, he starts shoving everything into his backpack with one hand while opening the text with the other.

“If you want. My parents won’t be home until 6.”

He makes his way to the same bus stop as yesterday and sends back an “I’m on my way” in reply. When he reaches the building, he suddenly feels intimidated by the wideness and brightness of the lobby. He punches in the code Nico texted him and makes his way up to the fourth floor. As he steps out of the elevator, he finds Nico waiting with the door ajar. He is wearing sweatpants and a rumpled tee-shirt, sleep-mussed hair and tired eyes, and looks self-conscious at his appearance.

“Hey.”

“Hi. Come in.”

They step inside and Martino starts taking everything in while Nico stands in the middle of the living room, looking at him, feet shuffling, shoulders hunched. Nico's shorter than he is, although not by much, but Martino always thought the way he carried himself made him look much taller. Today, however, he looks impossibly small and it makes something in Martino’s chest feel hollow.

“I’m not bothering you, am I?” Martino finally asks, not sure how long he can bear the discomfort of remaining silent when there is so much he wants to know.

“No, I was just…”

He gestures toward a door behind him, through which the unmade bed is visible.

“Oh. Do you want me to go?”

Much to his distress, Nico’s face seems to cloud over and Martino wants to step closer and comfort him but he has no idea if that would actually help. He makes a visible effort to compose himself before he answers.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay.”

Whatever composure he had managed to garner crumples away and Martino steps closer to him.

“No, I’d like to.”

Nico gives him a searching look before nodding. “Okay.”

Martino’s pretty sure the relief is clear on his face and he sees Nico register it. It seems to settle him somewhat.

“I’m not really in a mood to talk, though,” Nico adds.

“That’s okay. I’m still really tired and my throat hurts, so we could watch a movie or something?”

“Yeah? Sure, we could do that.”

Martino follows into Nico’s bedroom. His eyes are drawn to everything around him, all the little pieces of Nico's life. There are books, souvenirs, drawings and objects that seemed to have been cobbled up together from different parts on the walls, on the shelves, even on the wardrobe. He turns around to find Nico standing by the bed.

“Do you mind if we sit here?”

Any thought Martino may have given to sharing a bed with Nico in the past month now seems completely out of place. Nico fishes out a battered laptop from under the cover and places it in the middle of the bed while Martino takes a seat.

“What do you want to watch?” Niccolò asks, sitting cross-legged next to him.

Martino searches his brain for something that’s not going to make the situation any more awkward than it already is and is not going to threaten to worsen Nico’s mood. An idea crosses his mind that seems so inappropriate that he can’t keep it to himself.

“ _Lost_?” He suggests, with a light enough tone that Nico will know he’s kidding.

Nico does make a face at the suggestion. But after a pause, to his surprise, he adds, “Okay.”

They settle with the laptop between them and watch an episode in silence. While the credits roll, some shuffling occurs as Martino realizes that he is developing a crick in his neck from lying half against the wall half on one of Nico’s pillows. After different tries, they end up lying side by side, the laptop on a pillow between them. They’re not quite close enough to touch, but just enough that Martino can sense the warmth from Nico’s body next to his. Later, he won’t be able to tell exactly when he falls asleep, all he knows is that he never makes it to the end of the second episode.

 

When he wakes up, it takes him a second to simultaneously remember where he is, notice that Nico is no longer by his side and realize that the noise coming from the other side of the door that must have woken him up are hushed voices arguing. One is definitely Nico’s, but the other is a woman’s voice and she doesn’t sound happy. Martino takes his phone out and checks the time. It’s 5:54 and he swears under his breath. He goes to the door and as he cracks it open, Nico’s voice reaches him.

“Did you have to call him?”

“Well, somebody had to. You were staying with him, the least I could do...”

She cuts herself off shortly and Martino looks up to find that she’s looking straight at him. Fighting a blush, he pushes the door open.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep...”

The woman who has to be Nico’s mother is studying him in a way that makes him want to run out the door or go back to Nico’s room and crawl under the covers. But his parents have always insisted on the importance of manners and it wouldn’t be very fair to Nico, so when she extends her hand and introduces herself as Anna, he responds in kind. The silence that follows is almost unbearable. He’s glancing at Nico who is staring at the floor while Anna looks between the two of them.

“I should probably go,” he starts.

“I’ll walk you out,” Nico immediately responds before his mother can say anything.

If it stings a little that he’s so ready to let him leave, Martino tries to reason that the situation cannot be comfortable for him either. He retrieves his backpack, but once they are at the door, they both linger.

“I’m so sorry, Marti. It’s not against you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, which is pretty hypocritical of him as he is currently failing at following his own advice. “You can call me later if you want. Okay?”

He thinks there might be some relief in the way Nico’s brow unfurrows slightly at his words.

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.” Before Martino leaves, he turns around one last time. “Hey, by the way, you want to go to a party tonight?”

Nico finally gives him a real smile and he shakes his head, scrunching up his face. “Hm, maybe next time.”

“Sure. Next time.”

 

On the bus home, Martino stares at Google, trying to find a way to phrase a question that could lead him to some answers but coming up frustratingly empty. He has no idea how to even begin to put the situation into words. In the end, he puts his phone away and lets his thoughts wander in no particular direction for the rest of the journey. When he gets home, he’s surprised to find his mother there, having completely lost track of time.

“Hi honey, I got home a little earlier tonight and I picked up some Chinese from the place you like. I feel like I’ve barely seen you all week.”

The smell of sweet and sour chicken set up on the table reaches him at about the same time that his mother turns around and whatever she sees in his expression, it brings a frown to her face.

“Marti? Is everything okay?”

The question draws him out of his thoughts.

“Yes, I’m just tired,” he replies reflexively.

They eat in almost silence. At least, he can say that his answer was not a lie, the exhaustion of the week seems to have settled in his entire body and he wants nothing more than to not have to talk to anybody, sleep and maybe start to go back to what he considered normal. He doesn’t even notice that next to him, his mother keeps sneaking looks at him as she picks at her food.

“Marti, you’re really quiet, are you sure everything’s okay? Is it school?”

He stays silent for a moment, before he gives up the fight against himself, too tired to try and control the words that are about to come out of his mouth or to really worry about the consequences. Too tired to keep so much to himself.

“It’s not true what I told you,” he begins.

“What’s not true, honey?”

She puts down her chopsticks and looks at him with worry. Martino swallows a piece of chicken and fixes his eyes on his glass.

“When I was in France, I met somebody. Somebody that I like.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, it's… His name’s Niccolò.”

He has to pause for a second and he wants to look at her to know what’s she’s thinking but he can’t make himself do it. After what feels like an eternity, her hand covers his on the table.

“Tell me about him.”

He lets out a shaky breath, half tension leaving his body, half cough. His mom squeezes his hand tight and draws her chair closer to his.

“I met him at a museum.”

He tells her the story, not in details, but focusing on what feels important. When he gets to Saint-Malo, he finally manages to look up as he admits that he lied, but he finds no judgement in her eyes. They just look shinier than they did before. When he gets to the previous day, his voice starts to waver as he tells her about the bus journey to Niccolò’s and the sadness in his voice even as he was dismissing him. She’s holding on to him tightly with both hands by now, and the Chinese food is probably cold, completely forgotten.

By the time he’s told her about this afternoon, he finally realizes that he’s tearing up. He doesn’t even know when it started or why, he rarely cries and usually fights the tear before they can make it out. Tonight, he loses the fight, maybe because Niccolò is clearly going through something and he can’t do anything to help. Whatever it is seems so clearly beyond his expertise, and he hates how helpless it makes him feel.

“I don’t think he’s doing very well, and I don’t know why, and I don’t know what to do,” he concludes, his voice breaking and his throat stinging after what felt like such a long speech.

His mother is close enough that she can easily wrap him into a hug and he lets his head rest on her shoulder while trying to swallow back the tears. She strokes his hair in silence for a moment before speaking.

“Honey, whatever it is, it’s for Niccolò to go through, and you can’t help that. But you can make sure he doesn’t go through it alone. So you just try to be there for him, okay? You’ve got such a big heart, Marti, and you care about him, so I’m sure you’ll figure out what to do. And if you’re not sure, you ask him what he wants, and you take care of him if he lets you. You know, sometimes it’s all you can do.”

Martino nods. It seems so simple and obvious when she puts it like that. He doesn’t feel quite so helpless or quite so overwhelmed when it’s just about being there for Nico. There’s embarrassment here, somewhere, under all the other emotions he’s feeling at the moment, but it’s easy enough to ignore, especially when he takes a moment to consider the fact that he’s finally told his mom and that she doesn’t seem to care. Clearing his throat, he sits up on his chair so he can finally properly look at her.

“So you don’t mind?”

“The only thing I mind is that you’re sad. I’m glad you told me, and I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

Now that it’s out there and nothing bad has happened, the embarrassment is threatening to resurface. Neither of them is going to eat much more after that so he starts to put whatever is left back into the containers.

“You didn’t tell me how was work today.”

She doesn’t reply right away, just looks at him for a little longer, as if to make sure he’s okay and he’s run out of big secrets to tell for the evening before she starts telling him about her day. The crisis of the past two weeks is slowly being resolved, so things are starting to look up for her as well.

 

The tension Martino had been carrying starts leaving his body as they talk about other things, lighter, less overwhelming topics. Now that he is not quite so worried about how to behave with Nico either, he starts to feel heavy with drowsiness. He drags himself to bed and texts the guys to beg off the party, blaming it on his cold. After a short hesitation, he decides to also mention the conversation with his mother. He falls asleep soon after, uncommonly early, after receiving nothing but congratulations and orders to rest and finally get rid of his damn germs once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to base everything BPD-related on both what we saw in the show and my own research, but I'm clearly not a specialist, so feel free to let me know if I got something completely wrong. My goal is certainly not to misrepresent Nico's disorder or BPD in general.


	11. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marti and Nico learn some new things about each other.

He sleeps for almost twelve hours. When he wakes up, it takes him a minute to place what feels different. Only when he clears his throat and yawns does it occur to him that he can sort of breathe through his nose again. It’s not quite perfect, but there’s definitely some air going through. His throat doesn’t sting quite as much and his thoughts don’t feel quite as muddled. Then he remembers the previous night and he becomes aware of a great sense of emptiness within himself, a good kind of emptiness. An emptiness where before there were only secrets and fear, an emptiness that replaces a great weight and that is begging to be filled.

He picks up his phone on the bedside table to be met with a bunch of notifications and a missed call from Elia. Worry barely has time to creep in because all he finds is a drunken voice message from what sounds like Elia, Eleonora and Eva just rambling on about missing him and hoping he’s doing better. There are a few texts, all on the same tone, mostly filled with alcohol-fueled spelling mistakes. When he’s read them all, the emptiness is already starting to fill up and this time, it’s nothing but good. The last notification is a text from Nico sent about twenty minutes earlier, asking if he wants to come over this afternoon. He texts back immediately promising to be there. With messages from his friends and an invitation from Nico, when he had started to wonder if he had been imposing on him, Martino drags the cover up to his chin and sighs. It’s getting almost too warm to justify staying bundled up in his bed, but the truth is that the feeling he woke up to is still here, the feeling that things have indeed started to look up, and he just wants to bask in it.

He’s stretching his arms as far to the side as he can when he hears footsteps outside his door, his mother walking to her room and then back to the living room. She’s humming to herself, low enough not to wake him up. The emptiness fills up some more. It takes him a little longer to finally drag himself out of bed, when hunger and the craving for coffee become more appealing than the warm cocoon of his bed. As he emerges into the living room, he finds her reading a magazine at the table.

“Well, look who it is.”

“Morning,” Martino replies, clearing his throat again when his voices comes out hoarse.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, much better.”

She nods and goes back to her reading. While he makes himself a cup of coffee, she calls out from the next room.

“Do you have any plans today?”

His first reflex is to answer negatively or invent something with the guys, before he remembers that she knows who Niccolò is now. He may still feel some apprehension about her reaction, but at least he doesn’t have to lie anymore.

“Yes. I was going to go see Nico this afternoon.”

There’s no answer so he steps to the doorway, nervous jitters coursing through his arms and making him hold on tight to his coffee cup. But when she sees him appear, she just smiles. “That’s great, honey.”

The jitters disappear as fast as they came.

“I hope I’ll get to meet him someday,” she adds, with an interrogative inflection in her voice.

“I hope so, too. Not now, but sometime.”

“Of course. Whenever you both feel like it.”

They end up going to the San Cosimato market together, which they haven’t done since the last time her depression had hit her hard, and he had needed a pretext to get her out of the flat for a bit. It had been too crowded and not a success, but today, there is no reason why it shouldn’t go perfectly. He tries not to get annoyed when he realizes that she is acting more affectionate than usual, holding his arm through the crowd and asking his opinion on every product she picks up. She’d been patient with his outbursts and his sullenness during the whole thing with Emma or when he had gotten into a fight with his friends for reasons they had not understood at the time, so he can return the favor. And if it is her way of making sure he knows that she doesn’t think any differently of him, then maybe it’s not so bad.

 

After lunch, they sort through the bookshelves for a book drive Teresa has been setting up for refugees until it is time for him to go. He heads out of the flat with a promise to send his mother’s best to Niccolò, impatience making him reach the bus stop in record time. The bus ride is starting to look familiar and does not feel quite so long today. Before he realizes it, he finds himself outside the building, and then on up on the fourth floor. When Nico opens the door, he is still in his tee-shirt and sweatpants, but he doesn’t look like he just woke up this time. Martino is even greeted by a smile, hesitant as it is. They make their way to the bedroom and it becomes immediately evident that the rest of the flat is silent.

“Your parents aren’t here?”

“No, they went shopping.”

Nico still has his back to him, so he doesn’t have to try too hard to hide his relief at the news. He remembers vividly the look on Anna’s face last night and had not been looking forward to seeing it again.

“They won’t mind that I’m here? Your parents?” He asks anyway, the idea of getting Nico into trouble still weighing on his mind.

“No, of course not. I’m sorry for my mom last night. Don’t worry, she wasn’t angry at you.”

“Okay.”

There’s silence again. It had been so easy before, talking to Nico. But today, for all that he wants to say, it seems that neither of them has any idea where to start. He decides that nothing can’t be worse than just standing around not quite looking at each other, so he kicks off his shoes and sits down on the bed. Niccolò follows his lead, sitting in front of him, legs crossed.

“Hey, what’s your last name?” Martino asks on an impulse.

Nico finally looks at him, tilting his head questioningly. “What?”

“I don’t know your last name.”

“Oh. It’s Fares. Why?”

“I don’t know. I tried to look you up when I got home, but I realized I didn’t know your name. And it felt weird, not knowing that. That’s pretty basic information.”

“There’s a lot of basic information you don’t know about me,” Nico replies, as he starts picking at the hem of his jeans.

“When’s your birthday?”

Nico sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, I know, but when’s your birthday?” Martino insists.

And even though he doesn’t know, not really, Martino suspects at least that there’s more to Nico’s impromptu trip back home, to the abrupt mood change and the sudden sadness than just not wanting to spend four days alone. But there’s also so much more he wants to know that he actually knows how to ask.

“July 8th.”

“Where were you born?”

Receiving no answer, Marti looks from the drawings on the wall he had been examining to Niccolò, who has a shadow of a smile playing on his face.

“I could just show you my ID, you know.”

“If you have a really bad haircut from when you were 12 years old on the photo, then please, yes.”

“I had to get it renewed to go to France, so it’s from last year.”

Martino makes a face. “Oh. That’s not fun.”

He goes back to looking around at the room until Nico breaks the silence. “Rome.”

“What?”

“I was born in Rome. I never lived anywhere else.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember. ‘Born and bred’, right?” Nico doesn’t seem to understand what he’s talking about so he continues. “That’s what you said. In the museum, when I asked if you were Italian.”

“You remember that?”

Martino shrugs. Every information he could pick up about Nico had already seemed important at the time. It still does.

“I answered your questions, so now it’s your turn,” Nico says, gesturing in his direction.

“Okay. Last name Rametta. My birthday’s September 14th. I was born in Pisa, but we moved to Rome when I was about 2. My ID photo’s decent, I guess.”

“That’s boring.”

Martino laughs. “I hear that a lot.”

There is still a lot that is unspoken between them, but for the first time in three days, everything is starting to feel more like it did when they were in France and it was just the two of them. Martino doesn’t want to threaten that but he also can’t really ignore the question that is at the forefront of this thoughts.

“Can I ask you something else? And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Sure,” Nico replies with a nod.

“Why did you come back to Rome?”

He figures Nico will probably understand what he’s really asking, the “what do you have that made you come back?” that is implied. After thinking about it, it was the only explanation he had been able to come to. Even though some days, he barely understands his own mother’s depression, he has few doubts that he’s gotten it wrong. He is almost holding his breath as he waits for an answer, hoping it’s not too much, too private, maybe too recent to mention. Nico doesn’t have a clear reaction to the question and Martino wonders if maybe he had been expecting it. In any case, he stays silent for long enough that Martino is starting to fidget and to regret having asked it.

“Sorry, you really don’t have to…”

“No, that’s okay,” Niccolò finally replies. At least, he doesn’t sound angry or offended, if anything, his tone is almost resigned. “I’d like to tell you, but maybe not all of it. I’d rather wait a bit to tell you the rest, when my head’s clearer and I can explain better. Do you mind?”

“No, of course not. It’s up to you.”

Nico nods once, and Martino breathes out more freely now that he’s sure he hasn’t messed up. He shuffles closer to where Nico is sitting, until they’re face to face, both cross-legged with their knees touching. The contact seems to ground Niccolò as he sits up straighter and looks at him in the eye.

“It was a bunch of things, really. I had a couple of bad grades and I got into a fight with my uncle because of it. I was angry, and he had to leave early on Wednesday to go to a conference, so I didn’t get a chance to apologize.” He stops to look down at his hands. Martino is having trouble imagining him angry but he doesn’t say anything and waits. “And then, Yuna was supposed to come home for the long weekend, but she texted saying she was going to Paris with Benoît instead, and... I couldn’t be in Rennes anymore. I know it doesn’t make sense.”

Something brushes against Martino’s ankle, so he looks down to find that Nico is now fiddling with the hem of his jeans. Martino hooks his fingers under Nico’s and strokes his knuckles with his thumb.

“It was stupid, but it was like everything that was wrong was in Rennes, so it could only be better in Rome. And if Cecco and Yuna didn’t want to see me, I thought maybe you would...”

“But I do. I always want to see you.”

Nico doesn’t say anything to that, and Martino is not sure how else to convince him. “Do they know you’re here? Your uncle and Yuna?” He asks instead.

“Yes, my mom called Cecco yesterday, and he told Yuna. He called me this morning.”

“What did he say?”

“He felt bad for leaving without talking to me and Yuna felt bad for not going home, but it’s not their fault. I’m the one who ruined everybody’s weekend.”

Martino laces his fingers with Nico’s and thinks about that last statement for a bit. “Whose weekend did you ruin?”

Nico gives him a pointed look. “Everybody’s. Francesco’s and Yuna’s. My parents’. Even yours.”

“Really? Where’s your uncle?”

“In La Rochelle, at his conference.”

“And Yuna?”

“In Paris.”

“And your parents are out doing their thing.”

“But they were all worried about me. I didn’t want them to worry. Or you,” he points out, like Martino is not quite getting it.

“They just wanted to know you were safe, but I don’t think you ruined anything. And I don’t mind, I got to see you for three days.”

“Even if I’m not good company?”

“Of course. Nobody’s good company all the time.”

“You’ll get tired of me,” Nico counters. “That’s what always happens, people get tired of me.”

“I don’t think I will, but even so, I get tired of my mom or my friends sometimes. And I’m sure you’d get tired of me too. I hear I can be pretty annoying,” he puts on a smug tone, hoping it will get a reaction out of Nico, and he gets a smile for his effort.

Nico lets go of Martino’s hands to take his wrists instead and pull him closer. Martino resists and starts pulling the other way. Niccolò frowns for a second until he looks up and realizes what he’s doing.

“Is that how you're playing?”

“Yep.” Martino grins and gives him a challenging look and Nico pulls a little harder. Every time he does it, Martino matches him until his arms start to strain. They stay like that for a few seconds until, inevitably, Nico lets go and Martino topples backwards, landing on the pillows right behind him.

“You asshole, you’re not playing fair.”

Nico huffs a brief laugh. “You started it.”

The smile doesn’t stay long on his face and Martino is convinced that he can almost hear the thoughts whirling through his head. Nico’s caught himself before he could fall over him, but he’s close enough that Martino can pull at his shirt to draw his attention. Once he has it, he shuffles backwards until he can lean against the wall, and holds out his arm in invitation. Niccolò looks at him and hesitantly settles against him, his back resting against Martino’s chest. Martino wraps his arms around his shoulders. He takes a deep breath, and it may be a little selfish, but he’s glad to finally be able to hold Nico again. Nico takes his right hand in his and laces their fingers together.

“I don’t want to talk about all of that anymore. It’s all I’ve been talking about for three days. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Tell me something about you. You went to a party last night, right?”

“Oh no, I didn’t go. I was so tired, I ended up in bed at, like 10. Like an old man.”

He feels more than he hears Nico laugh in answer.

“And you don’t sound as sick as yesterday.”

“No, I feel better.”

“That’s good.”

Martino swallows, thinking back to the night before.

“Also, I told my mom last night. About you.”

“Really? What did she say?”

“She wants to meet you.”

Niccolò shifts against him and starts picking at the cover on his bed with his free hand.

“Not now,” Martino adds hastily, wondering if he’s inadvertently put too much pressure on him much too soon. “Later. And if you want to, of course.”

“No, I’d like that.”

Even if he couldn’t see Nico’s profile, he could still hear the smile in his voice. The emptiness keeps filling up quickly.

“What about your dad?”

Still basking in Nico’s answer, the question takes Martino by surprise. “What?”

“You don’t talk about your dad much.”

“I mean, he doesn’t know. He’s got a new life and a new family, so I don’t see him that often.”

“Really? Why?”

“I think I was angry at him for a while. He just left us and he didn’t give a shit about how it would make my mom feel, he just didn’t want to deal with it. But once he was gone, I was the one who ended up having to deal with it and…”

Martino cuts himself off and presses his lips together to stop talking. Saying it out loud after having seen Nico like this, he suddenly realizes how he tends to talk about his mother and how it could make him feel. Or how it makes _her_ feel. The old familiar guilt settles in.

They both stay quiet for a while as Martino tries to find a way to backpedal that doesn’t make it too obvious that it’s what he’s doing. In the end, Nico’s the first one to break the silence.

“Your mom, you said she was depressed, right?”

“Yes”, Martino answers cautiously.

“Is it bad?”

Martino has no idea how he’s supposed to answer that. But Nico turns his head to try and catch his eye, and he doesn’t see any judgement in his expression. In the end, it seems like a better idea to be honest in this moment, so he is.

“Sometimes, yes. She’s been doing better lately, especially now that the divorce’s moving forward. But after he left, she was pretty bad for a while.”

Nico nods but it’s not doing anything to assuage the guilt.

“I’m sorry, when I said I had to deal with it, I didn’t mean…”

He trails off, because he doesn’t know how to end that sentence in a way that isn’t at least a partial lie. It had been tough, it had felt unfair and he had resented having to play that part and to take care of his mother, especially at a time when he was struggling himself. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to say any of that right now either.

“Marti, that’s okay,” Nico says, squeezing his hand. “I know it’s hard to deal with for everybody. I’ve heard my parents say much worse than that when they thought I wasn’t listening. I know it was really tough for Maddalena sometimes when we were in high school.”

“But it's so much worse for her. Or for you. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t complain.”

“Come on, of course, you’re allowed to complain.” He pauses for a second before he continues. “You’re still there for your mom, right? When we were in Saint-Malo, you picked up the phone when she called you and you tried to make her feel better.”

“Well, yeah.” Not even when she was at her worst did it ever occur to Martino to do otherwise.

“That’s what matters. I think you’re allowed to be frustrated.”

Martino tries to catch a glimpse of his expression to see if he means it, but Nico’s looking away towards his window.

“And you know I’m here for you, too. Right?” He presses, instead. Nico turns around with a searching look. “And I promise I won’t get frustrated,” Martino adds.

“You can’t promise that.”

“Fine, then I promise… to try and be more patient. And if it doesn’t work, at least not to say stupid stuff?”

Nico smiles. “I don’t know if you can really promise that either, but it’s better.”

“Your turn, now.”

“My turn?”

“You have to promise something, too.”

“What?”

Martino considers the question, looking up at the ceiling as he searches for inspiration.

“Hm, you have to promise to tell me if there’s something wrong and also to let me help if I can. Is that okay?”

“I don’t know if I can promise that either.”

“Okay. Can you promise to try, too?”

“I guess.”

Martino gives him a nudge. “Come on, say you promise.”

“Fine. I promise to try.”

Satisfied, Martino holds him a little tighter and rests his cheek on Nico’s hair, who lets out a long exhale at the touch.

 

They don’t move or talk for a while until questions start flooding back into Martino’s head.

“What about next year? Have you decided if you wanted to go back?”

The words are barely out that he wonders if now is the best time to broach the topic. Nico might not even want to think about that right now if he needed so badly to leave Rennes. But it’s too late to take it back.

“I’m not sure.”

“You still have time to decide. Right?”

“Yes, but not that much.”

“Do you think you’d like to?”

“I don’t know. The thing is… I fought my parents so hard so they would let me go. And then I didn’t even make it a whole year.”

“Why didn’t they want you to go?”

Nico shrugs. "They thought something like that might happen. So, I guess they were right." He sounds defeated.

“But it’s not that bad, is it? You said you only missed one class. Unless you’re not going back?”

“No, I am. I’m flying back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Martino repeats. “That’s really soon. Are you gonna be okay?”

Niccolò makes a vague gesture.

“I think so. I don’t want to miss too much. And Cecco’s going to pick me up from the airport. I’m not even sure if he’ll let me come back next year after that,” he adds after a short pause.

Pointing out that the situation doesn’t sound as bad as Nico is painting it doesn’t seem to help, so Martino refrains this time. It is easy enough for him to say, all he got out of it was a surprise visit and some insight he didn’t know he was missing. He doesn’t know how much it will affect Nico when he goes back to France.

“But I guess I really liked being in a new town,” Niccolò continues, his tone pensive and his eyes directed somewhere above his desk. “In a new place, with new people who didn’t know anything about me. And…”

He trails off so Martino squeezes his hand gently to prompt him to keep going.

“I talked about it with my mom last night, after you left. It wasn’t the course I wanted to take, so I think, maybe, I focused too much on the things I didn’t like instead of what I did. Some classes kinda sucked, but there were some that were pretty interesting. And in second year, you get to pick more electives, so it could be closer to what I wanted to study.”

“That’s cool.”

Niccolò nods before continuing. His voice grows more confident, as if he had wanted to get this off his chest for a while.

“It was also harder than I expected. Especially having to follow that many classes in French.”

“But your French is really good,” Martino interjects.

“You only say that because yours is terrible,” Nico retorts with a smile.

Martino nudges his thigh with his knee, but he appreciates the dig. After the general sense of confusion from the past two days, it sounds familiar and comforting.

“You can probably get some help for that. Right? They must have, I don’t know, tutors or other students who can help.”

“Yes, they have. But because I had insisted so much on going, I didn’t want to tell anyone it was tough. I wish I had.”

It must have been a lot to carry, and Martino is starting to get a sense of what could have been building up until Niccolò suddenly had to get away.

“At least, now you know, so it’ll be better next year if you go back.”

“I guess.”

Nico lets his head roll back against his shoulder. His eyes are closed. Martino really wants to kiss him but he doesn’t dare. He’s not sure it would be appropriate.

“We’re talking about me again,” Niccolò points out.

“Yep, you can’t escape it.”

“You know, if I go back, it’ll mean that I’ll be gone for two more years.” He lets the sentence hang in the air and Martino waits to see if there’s more to come. “Does that… bother you?”

It sounds like a simple enough question but Martino has to bite back a grin because Nico is really asking if he’ll stick around for two years of living in two different countries. As if he could ever say no to that.

“Of course not.”

“Are you sure? That’s a lot of time without seeing each other.”

“I know. But we can still talk. And there’s the emails.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No, but I kinda like them. And it’s not like we ever were in the same city for more than a few days anyway, so we can’t really compare. Plus, you won’t be gone all year, you get more holidays than us, right?”

“Yes, every six weeks more or less.”

“And how often did you come back?”

“This year, just for Christmas and in February. But I could come back more. Or you could come visit. Francesco wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure. And anyway, that’s a long time from now. Right now, you're here, and then, there’ll be the summer, and after that, we’ll see. But I think it doesn’t sound so bad. I think we can figure it out.”

“Maybe. At least, we can try," Nico concedes.

“Exactly.”

 

Martino has no idea how long has passed since he got here. The afternoon feels simultaneously like it went by in the blink of an eye and like they have been here for days. The light outside has definitely changed and the ray of sunlight that flows through the window has moved across the floor. Against his chest, Niccolò shifts like he’s trying to get more comfortable. It may just be from keeping the position for so long, but he feels heavier than before against Martino.

“Are you okay?” He asks, when Nico doesn’t seem to find the right way to settle.

Nico shifts again, trying to rest his head on his shoulder.

“I don’t know. I think… I think I’m just really tired.”

“Oh. Do you want me to go?”

He can count the time that passes before he gets an answer by Nico’s breaths.

“Not really, but I have to leave tomorrow and…”

Even though Martino already knew that, only now that does the information really sink in.

“Right. I should leave then. And your parents will get back at some point.”

“I told you, they’re not angry at you.”

“No, I know. But maybe they’d want to spend time with you.”

He tries to detangle himself, but Nico doesn’t budge. His face has closed off and he holds on tighter to his hand. Martino doesn’t want to go either, but he does look exhausted and a part of him still isn’t looking forward to meeting Nico’s parents again. He presses his lips to Nico’s temple.

“We can talk later if you want.”

Nico turns his head to look at him and he nods, his expression relaxing. His eyes dart to Martino’s lips and he tilts his chin, silently asking for a kiss. Martino is not going to refuse him that. It’s a short kiss, not only because their position doesn’t make it very comfortable, but because it doesn’t need to be more right now. It’s enough to be a seal on everything they've talked about, one last promise. After that, Nico finally agrees to let Martino stand up. They walk to the door together, where they stand on the threshold, delaying just a little further the moment when it will have to close between them for another five weeks.

“So, see you in June?” Niccolò asks.

“Yes, see in you in June.”

Niccolò leans over for another kiss before Martino heads towards the staircase. As he turns around, he finds Nico still in the doorway.

“Talk to you soon?”

“You will,” Nico assures him.

 

That night, while he is hanging out at Luca’s with the guys, Elia asks where he disappeared to for three days, and Martino finally tells them. Not all of it, they don’t need to know and it’s not his place to tell, but they listen to a condensed version, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. When he’s done, they chide him for keeping Nico away from them. Gio immediately starts hatching a plan for all of them to get together when he comes back for the summer. The week ends and things are starting to feel normal again.

 

Martino doesn’t hear from Nico right away. It takes a few days, but he doesn’t mind. He probably has a lot to talk about with his uncle, not to mention that he has to deal with going back to Rennes and to class when he was feeling so torn about his time there. Martino texts him a few times, whenever he sees something he thinks he would like. Nico doesn’t text back, but he’s not worried this time. And then, on Thursday night, he calls. Martino’s playing checkers with his mom when they both see his name appear on the screen. He looks up to find a teasing smile directed at him. At his questioning look, she waves a dismissive hand.

“I’ll get started on dinner, we’ll finish this later.”

With a quick thank you, he picks up and heads towards his room.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Marti.” Hearing Nico say his name really isn’t getting old. He hopes it never does.

“Hi! How are you?”

When Nico assures him that he’s fine, Martino has no problem believing him. He explains that he stayed home on Monday, still tired from the ordeal that had been flying from Rome to Rennes with his flight being delayed when a thunderstorm had erupted just as they were about to take off, but otherwise went back to class as soon as he could. Martino barely has time to ask anything else before he moves on with determination in his voice.

“You remember I told you I would explain more about what happened last weekend?”

“Yes, I remember, but you told me a lot already, you don’t have to.”

“No, I told you I would when I could explain better. I think I can now. And I’d like to.”

So, Nico tells him about BPD. How it had been easy in Rennes to neglect what his therapist had tried to teach him, despite regularly Skyping with her, and to pretend like everything was fine. How the week before, with the pressure from school and the argument with his uncle, it could have just taken a text from Yuna to make it necessary to fly back to Rome as soon as he physically could. How arriving at Martino’s school to find him sick and realizing that none of his problems had been solved, had felt like he was suddenly drowning. Even though Nico doesn’t say it outright, he implies enough that Martino understands that the fact that his own reception had not been quite as warm as he expected didn’t help. Rationally, he knows there wasn’t much he could have done about it, but guilt tugs at his heart anyway.

Nico loses himself in the jargon at one point, like he’s trying to put some distance between the disorder and himself. Marti lets him talk, grasping at what he can and telling himself he can always ask or even Google what he doesn’t understand later. The more he hears, the more the last weekend starts to make sense. After Nico mentions that Yuna not coming had felt like he was being abandoned in Rennes, something at the back of Martino’s mind tells him that the words sound familiar. He continues to listen while searching through memories until he zeroes in on what it reminds him of. It was a conversation they had, almost two months ago, about being stranded on an island with no help coming. That piece fits together with everything else, and the picture gets even clearer. When Nico stops talking, they’re silent for a moment and Martino tries to figure out what to say. Nothing seems appropriate when dealing with this kind of information. So, he goes with the only thing that comes to his mind.

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it?” Nico sounds surprised.

“Well, yes. I don’t really know what else to say.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, why would I mind? It’s what you meant, in your email, with the mosaics, right? Not to focus on one thing but to look at the big picture.”

The line goes silent again.

“I didn’t think you got that.”

“Oh no, I had no idea what that meant when you sent it. But now I think I do.”

“You can think about it if you want.”

“Think about what? We talked about it already last weekend, didn’t we? I mean, I didn’t know exactly what it was, but I said I would try to be patient and you said you would let me help. Does that still work?”

“It does.”

“Then, I’m okay if you are.”

There’s silence on the line before Nico breathes out, “Okay.”

Martino can’t help the pang he feels when he recognizes relief in that single word. It can’t have been easy for Nico to lay himself bare like that. Twice.

“Thank you for telling me,” he adds.

“I told you because it’s not going to be easy.”

“I know. But for now, I think it’s pretty good.”

“I think so, too." There's a noise on the other end of the line and Nico says something away from his phone. "I’m sorry, but I have to go. Cecco said he would help me study tonight.”

“Hey, that’s great.”

“I don’t know yet, I’ll tell you when we're done.”

“Well, good luck with that, then.”

“Thank you. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. But we’ll talk soon. And you know what could actually make things easier?”

“What?”

He draws out the suspense for a bit before answering. “If you got WhatsApp, you caveman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figuring out these two chapters took ten years out of my life, so I really hope everything makes sense.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, we're almost there.


	12. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of June is here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you so much to the people who left regular comments for your continued support. You didn't have to do it but you did, you're angels. You've no idea how much it helped throughout this whole process. You get a lifetime supply of chocolate sardines.

Martino has never been much of a pacer. Whenever he feels anxious or impatient, he tends to turn it inward. At the most, he may grab whatever is in front of him to distract himself. And yet, here is, channeling all his willpower into remaining seated and not wandering from room to room, picking up a book, putting it down, trying to read an article on Wikipedia, drying one pot, putting it away, going back to the book, wash, rinse, repeat. Nico’s voice message told him he’d be here around 2. It is now 1:57, which technically qualifies as “around 2” while being vague enough to mean that he could still be in for a bit of waiting.

The flat is too quiet so he puts on some music, loud enough to fill the whole place. His mom’s gone for the afternoon, taking his very disinterested suggestion to go pay Teresa a visit, oh, why not Saturday afternoon? She had agreed at first, sure, she’d be glad to see her friend again. And then, she had given him a sharp, searching look before asking when Niccolò was due back in Rome. There never was much fooling her even if it never kept him from trying. In the end, she had still agreed, warning that she wouldn’t be back late. That doesn’t matter, they have other plans for the evening.

Those plans have been set for over a week, a long time given how little they actually entail, all because everybody involved had been so eager to chime in with their suggestions. As no consensus could be reached, all this fuss had eventually been concluded by a simple “Hey, let’s meet at a bar.” Martino had taken a backseat to those plans, watching his friends brainstorm instead, with a smile on his face at their eagerness to ensure the best possible night out. He doesn’t really care what they do, he’ll be happy as long as he’s with his friends and Nico. Going back to the sofa, he opens the book he had laid down two minutes ago when he had gone to check on the weather again. There are still clouds gathering over the horizon, but over Rome, for now, the sky is bright blue. He manages an entire chapter before he goes to get himself some water. The intercom buzzes while he’s putting the jug of water back into the fridge. A glance at the clock on the microwave informs him that he should probably somewhat stretch his definition of “around 2”. He buzzes the door open and waits for the noisy clang of the elevator.

When he opens the door, Nico is stepping out onto the landing. He grins and he looks exactly the same as he had looking up from his sketchpad, except for the familiarity in his eyes and the tan he’s acquired in the past month.

“Hey!”

“Hi. Sorry, the bus took a detour.”

Martino steps aside and Nico walks in, looking around at the apartment. The memory of the flat by Saint Peter briefly makes Martino self-conscious, but the feeling dissipates as soon as Nico turns back to him, bright-eyed and still grinning, and holds out something.

“Here.” The mystery object turns out to be fish-shaped chocolate wrapped in tinfoil to make it look like a sardine. “Since you loved all the fish souvenirs so much.”

“Thank you,” Martino replies, taking the sardine that he has no interest in at the moment.

The restlessness comes back, but it’s not making him want to pace this time. Nico’s standing in front of him, they’re alone, they have two months ahead of them, and Martino wants to kiss him, hold him, touch him and not let go until he absolutely has to. He’s been thinking about kissing Nico again since he got the message saying he was coming over. In truth, he’s been thinking about it for much longer, but the message did make the thought more real. And really, he has no reason not to be doing it.

As his hand goes for the back of Nico’s neck, the forgotten chocolate drops to the floor and Nico must be on the same page as him because he’s immediately kissing back. Saint-Malo seems like forever ago, but the feeling in Martino’s chest when they kiss hasn’t changed at all. He has barely had time to reacquaint himself with it when Nico pulls away, just enough to look at him while still holding on to him.

“So, how are you?” He asks, trying to put on a formal tone which is completely ruined by the laughter in his voice.

With a huff, Martino tries to go back to kissing him but he stands his ground and gives him a pointed look, grin still in place. Martino gives in.

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Very good.”

“Good,” Martino concludes, hoping he will be satisfied and already leaning towards him again.

Then Nico’s hands slip under his shirt, cold against the warm skin of his back and he feels a whisper against his lips.

“I’ve missed you.”

The thought crosses Martino’s mind to tell him that he’s missed him too, but words are out of his reach at the moment. So, he decides to show him instead.

 

It starts raining at some point, a sudden and heavy shower. Thunder rumbles in the distance, somewhere at the outskirts of town. Martino listens to the downpour, hoping it will let up before they have to head out to meet the others later tonight. They’re lying on his bed, sheets rumpled and a crumpled ball of tinfoil abandoned between them. Martino’s head is resting on Nico’s stomach, and as soft fingers absentmindedly comb through his hair, his thoughts wander back to something he has been deliberating for the past couple of days. He makes a decision.

“Hey, Ni?”

A lazy mumble answers him.

“I have to tell you something,” Martino continues.

“Okay.” When he doesn’t say anything, he can feel Nico prop himself up on his forearms to try and look at him. “What is it?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Nico laughs and the sound reverberates throughout his body and Martino’s head.

“Don’t tell me, then,” Nico offers, lying back down.

“But I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“Marti, you’ve said too much or too little.” Nico pokes him in the cheek. “Pick one and stick to it.”

“Fine. You know the thing with my friends tonight? It’s a surprise party.”

“Really? Cool, who’s it for?”

“For you. As an early birthday.”

“My birthday’s in ten days,” Nico replies after a short silence.

“I know, that’s why it’s early.”

“But why did you tell me, then?” He doesn’t sound angry, just confused, which is fair as it defeats the very purpose of a surprise party.

“Because you just got back yesterday and you won’t know anybody there. And I don’t know, if you didn’t feel like going, I’d get it. I could cancel.”

Nico doesn’t say anything for a moment, just continues playing with his hair until he starts moving again and tries to sit up. Martino lifts his head while he switches position and then rests it on his lap once he’s done.

“Marti, are you the one who really wants to ditch your friends to stay here?” Nico asks, leaning over him. His tone is teasing, so Martino laughs.

“No. Or maybe a little bit, but no.”

“If you’re worried, I promise I’ll be fine. I said I would tell you if there was something wrong.”

“Oh. Are you sure?”

Nico leans down to kiss him. “Yes. And I really want to meet your friends.”

“Okay. Well, now I feel stupid for ruining the surprise.”

“Don’t worry, I was still surprised. Just a little bit early.”

“But you’ll act surprised when we get there, right? If you don’t, Luca’s going to be really bummed. It was his idea.”

Nico laughs. “I’ll try.”

Martino tilts his chin up for another kiss.

“And thank you for the party,” Nico adds.

“Wait until you meet them before you thank me.”

“No. Thank you either way.” Nico just looks at him for a beat before he adds, “I love you.”

“You do?” The words come out of their own accord and his voice sounds faint even to his own ears.

Nico smiles and nods, and there’s definitely something stuck in Martino’s throat because he has to swallow before he can reply.

“I love you, too.”

Martino reaches up to push away a strand of hair from Nico’s forehead and give himself an excuse for not quite being able to look him in the eye. Luckily, Nico leans down to kiss him again, and he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore. His hand wraps around Nico’s neck to pull him closer. The position is clearly uncomfortable for them both, so Nico drags Martino up with him and holds him as tight as he can.

 

The rain is turning into a drizzle when they curl up together, not so much for warmth as the air in the room is heavy and still, but simply for proximity after being deprived of it for so long. Martino can feel Niccolò’s chin move against his shoulder, as if he was slowly shaking his head to himself. His left arm is wrapped around Martino’s middle and their fingers loosely interlaced. With the rise and fall of Nico’s chest against his back, Martino is starting to doze off when he both hears and feels Nico speaking.

"Are you ever going to tell me what you're doing next year by the way, or do I have to guess?"

The question stirs him awake because Martino has been avoiding the subject and he hasn’t been that subtle about it. Obviously, he couldn’t completely avoid it, as some thought and discussion had to be put into it with his parents and the school at least. His mother had asked again and again until she was satisfied with his answer, and his last dinner with his dad and Paola had been nothing but a tedious conversation about his plans for the future, so whenever Nico asked, no matter how legitimate the question, he had sidestepped it. Nico, to his credit, hadn't insisted. Of course, Martino knew from the start this strategy couldn’t work on the long term and they’ve reached that term. That doesn’t mean he can’t stall for a few more minutes.

"Guess,” he answers.

Nico kisses his shoulder and rests his chin in the crook of Martino’s neck, humming thoughtfully.

"You’re going to become an explorer, find a desert island and move there with me."

"Don’t tempt me."

"Or you're going to create a revolutionary app, become a billionaire and then use your money to clean up the oceans."

"What kind of app?"

"I don't know. It’s your app, not mine."

“Maybe that can be plan B.”

"Or go to Australia to study deadly spiders."

Martino should know better than to tell anyone he is terrified of spiders, so he may have brought this one on himself.

"Shut up,” is all he can retort.

"Well, tell me, then."

“I’m going to study law.”

He strokes Nico’s thumb with his as he waits for a reaction.

“Okay. Do you know what you want to do with that? Like, be a lawyer or...”

That’s another question everybody has been asking a lot. He usually claims that he wants to wait and see which classes he likes best, but in truth, he has been toying with an idea for the better part of the school year.

“Not really yet. Maybe not necessarily a lawyer. But I’ve been thinking about something to do with family law.”

That’s the first time he’s actually said it out loud and he waits for Nico to comment on it with some trepidation. When he doesn’t and just keeps quiet, he feels compelled to add, “I don’t know, it was just an idea.”

“No, that sounds interesting. What made you think of that?” Nico finally replies, wrapping his arm tighter around him.

“I think… Okay, for instance, I had a friend in middle school whose parents got divorced and things got pretty ugly. She spent a lot of nights at my place or at her other friends’ because her parents were fighting all the time. By the end of it, they couldn’t even stand the idea of living in the same city anymore, so she had to move away. It went fine for my parents and custody was not an issue, but one of the lawyers told them about some other cases he worked on, and... some of them were really bad. And I know you can’t change the law, maybe you can’t even do much about it, but maybe you can also make things easier. Like you could smooth things over a little bit, make sure you do the best for the kids or to help somebody get out of a bad situation.”

Nico lets go of his hand and props himself up onto his side while he speaks. Following the motion, Martino rolls onto his back and shuffles a few inches away so they can look at each other before he continues.

“Or take my dad. They haven’t been together for that long yet, but Paola’s kid is living with them and right now, he has no rights over him. His dad lives in Switzerland, I think, so my dad takes care of him, but legally, they're nothing to each other. Or you said it wasn’t easy for Yuna’s mom to adopt her partner’s kids just because they’re not married.” He pauses for a beat and looks down at the mattress between them. “I mean, you have to get a degree in private law first, and it’s just an idea anyway. It could be something else.”

“I think you’d be amazing at it,” Nico simply comments, taking his hand again.

Martino had been keeping this part of the plan to himself because everybody he had told about wanting to study law had asked about criminal law, politics, refugees or the environment, and telling them about divorces or custody battles felt unimportant in comparison. But now that he’s said it, he’s not surprised that Nico seems to understand.

“Or maybe I could be a copyright lawyer, and when you’re a famous artist, I could help you defend yourself against forgers and stuff,” he jokes to move on from what he deems a much too serious subject for the afternoon.

Nico punches him in the shoulder.

“Yes, when I design a shitty logo for an even shittier company, you can fight to make sure they get more money than they already have.”

After talking about it with his parents and then Martino, Nico’s been trying to have a more positive outlook over his choice of degree. Depending on the day, he tends to see the glass as half empty or half full. Today appears to be an empty kind of day.

“Come on, you don’t know that. You could do amazing things.”

As usual when the topic is brought up, Nico just makes an unconvinced face and changes the subject.

“Hey, so that means when we get married, I’ll have to make extra sure you and your fancy law degree don’t screw me over with the prenup.”

Despite knowing that he’s just trying to create a diversion, the words make Martino’s heart skip a beat, and he tries to answer on the same tone.

“ _When_ we get married, uh?”

“Of course. One day, when it’s completely legal. We still have a few years.”

“I don’t know, Ni. You’re turning 21. You better hope they pass it before you get too old.”

He’s about to continue, but before he can, Nico straddles him in one swift movement.

“Oh, is that so?”

Before Martino can react, Nico’s mouth is on his neck, and he forgets whatever he was going to say.

 

They’re in the kitchen, Nico chopping onions with the purpose of proving that he can actually cook an omelet and not burn it while Martino has been instructed to supervise, whatever that means, when they hear the front door open. Martino’s mother had texted that she was on a way back well ahead, so it’s not a surprise. Still, they both look up and then at each other as she calls out her son’s name. A small knot of nervousness appears in Martino’s stomach which he doesn’t quite understand. He’s not afraid of introducing Nico to his mom. Maybe it’s just that he’s never had to do anything like it before.

“We’re in here,” he replies, and Nico puts down the knife and wipes at his stinging eyes with the back of his hand.

“I thought you might be gone already.” She comes into view and her eyes go immediately to Nico. “Hi, you must be Niccolò.”

She shakes his hand while Martino tries not to squirm. It’s weird. Nico’s only been his for the past two months, his secret, his stories from France, only known to the people around him through what he chose to tell. Even to Filippo, the only one to have met him, he was much more what Martino had told him than the couple of sentences they had exchanged in a crowded concert hall. But now, he’s making small talk with his mother, and tonight, he’ll meet his friends. And then, for the next two months, it will be the two of them and all of Rome.

His mother only has eyes and questions for Nico and he can’t blame her, he had felt the same pull the first time he had met his eyes over a sketch in the museum. There’s just something about him. He’s still observing the scene as if from behind a window when his mother notices the food on the counter.

“What were you making?”

“Just omelets with tomatoes and mozzarella. Do you want some? We could make more,” Martino suggests.

He can hear in his own voice that it doesn’t come out as the most sincere offer. Yet again, his mother looks at him before putting a hand on his arm and giving him a knowing smile.

“No, thank you. I’ll leave you to your dinner for tonight. But some other time.” She turns to Niccolò and takes his hand again before adding. “I’m very happy to meet you.”

She’s gone before either of them can react, but Nico’s smile has turned a little bashful. Martino waits until she is out of earshot to whisper,

“I think she liked you.”

 

A few minutes later, Martino manages to save the omelet from complete ruin, but barely.

 

By the time they’re ready to leave, the rain has stopped. The smell of wet concrete and dripping leaves wafts through the streets as they walk the twenty minutes to the bar. The heaviness and humidity that had stifled Rome for the past couple of days are gone as are the clouds, and the city can finally breathe. When they reach the bar, Martino stops with his hand on the door handle.

“Are you ready to be surprised?”

Nico pretends to square his shoulders and nods seriously. “I’m ready.”

He texts the guys that they’re here before they make their way inside and towards the back of the bar, where Gio had told him they had managed to secure two tables. Nico follows closely behind so they don’t get separated in the crowd. Martino catches Eva’s eye through a gap between two groups of people, and she immediately starts whispering to her neighbors. Next to her, he notices Luca and Federica holding balloons, for reasons he chooses not to examine. The news of their arrival apparently makes its way around the tables quickly enough, because when they emerge from the crowd, all his friends raise their drinks in a toast.

“Surprise!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember Rapunzel yelling "I can't believe I did this"? Because same.  
> Anyway, this entire thing happened because back in January, I took a friend to the museum of Fine Arts and also because of that one brief reference to Celtic music in episode 2. Now here we are, this is the longest story I've ever finished. What the hell.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read this weird idea I had for an AU that was really just an excuse for me to nerd out while playing around with the plot of season 2 and imagining how some things could have happened a little differently. If you made it to the end, maybe let me know what you thought, tell me how you ended up here or just say hi!


	13. One, Two, Three (an epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to, I’ve been thinking about it since chapter 3. And happy birthday to this version of Nico.

“Come on. Just this one,” Niccolò tries again, giving Martino a pleading look.

“No way.”

“Please, Marti.”

“You promised that if I came, I wouldn’t have to dance.”

“And when I make promises to make you come, do I ever break them?”

Martino rolls his eyes before glancing around them at the people gathering on the dance floor and whatever he sees is not convincing him to join in. He has this look about him like he is taking the idea of dancing in front of all of these people way too seriously.

“You’re breaking _this_ promise,” Martino points out.

“I’m making a new one and it is that I won’t ask you again.”

“How did you even find one of these in Rome?” Martino gestures at the band who, although with no bombarde or bagpipe in sight, has been playing traditional music, and the dancers who have started to swirl in front of them.

“They’re everywhere! They even have them in New York and in Japan.”

“Are you saying we could be in New York instead?”

“I’m really not. But one day, we could go,” Niccolò adds, hoping it might sweeten the pot.

“And I won’t have to dance?”

“I promise.”

“Yeah, well, your promises are worthless.”

As he holds back a laugh, two girls waltz past them before disappearing back into the crowd. Niccolò’s fingers itch to take a hold of Martino and follow them. There are a lot of women dancing together and he is pretty sure that two guys dancing together would raise a few more eyebrows, but it is dark enough and crowded enough on the floor, plus people seem to be mostly minding their own business, that he hopes they can go relatively unnoticed.

“Why are they playing a waltz?” Martino inquires, wary look still firmly in place. “I don’t know shit about this, but I’m pretty sure it’s not from Brittany.”

“Ah, see! And I said you wouldn’t have to do any Breton dances. So, it doesn’t count.”

He takes Martino’s hand, and this time, when he tries to pull him towards the dance floor, Martino lets him, although not without a half-hearted glare.

 

He puts his right hand on Martino’s back and shows him the steps, counting one-two-three under his breath in time to the music until Martino finds the rhythm. He is frowning and looking down at their feet in concentration, and the sight brings a fond smile to Niccolò's face. No matter how much Martino must hate it, and he probably does, at least a little bit, he is giving it his best try, and every second spent thinking they could never work together or missing him while they were separated feels worth it.

He is going to have to give credit to Yuna who, when he had gone back to Rennes with the news that Martino now knew everything about him and was sticking around, had insisted he had to learn how to waltz. When asked why, she had simply smiled and answered, “You never know.” Now, he’s going to have to tell her that she was right and he will never hear the end of it.

 

They stay at the outskirts of the crowd of dancers, far from where couples brush past each other without ever colliding or cutting each other off as if the whole thing had been carefully choreographed. Martino is barely even paying attention to the music, focusing on his feet instead. He is starting to get the hang of it so Niccolò moves the hand he has on Martino’s back slightly higher up to get his attention.

“You’re doing fine, Marti. Look up.” As if woken from a daze, Martino looks up and blinks before his frown smooths away when their eyes meet. “See? It wasn’t so bad,” Niccolò prompts.

“You’re lucky I love you.” The smile that is tugging at his lips contradicts the petulance in his voice, and Niccolò’s smile softens because Martino really has no idea. He makes the only reply he can.

“I am.”

Martino gives him a long look, then tilts his head to the side with a grin. “But not as lucky as me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now I’m done.


End file.
